[Fanfic] Dulce et Decorum Est
Title: Dulce et Decorum Est
Characters: Falkland Islands, England, Scotland.
Rating: 12
Warnings: The realities of war and the home front. The general fact I cannot write happy things to save my life.
Summary: Falklands just wants to help in the war effort, but he's too young. How about doing the Post Office a favor and delivering letters...
The was a brilliant idea, Falklands concluded with a grin as he practically ran down the corridors of England's country house. This might even have been the best idea he'd had this year. This decade even!
"England!" he cried, opening the door to his office without knocking. England looked up grumpily, deep bags under his eyes from lack of sleep.
"Yes, Falklands, what is it." he asked dully, pen paused over where he was signing papers.
The young boy bounced forward to England's desk. "I know how I can help out with the war effort!"
A curious eyebrow rose. "Oh?"
"Yes sir!"
"Well then out with it boy."
"I've volunteered to help the post office deliver letters!"
England's face fell slightly. Not with disappointment, but with a weary sadness. Not expecting this reaction, Falklands felt the need to clarify. "I mean, all the postmen are off to war, and the telegraph boys are spread pretty thin and I don't get tired so easily as them and I really want to help and not be useless. Please, England! I do my very best!"
A heavy hand landed on scruffy brown hair. "Alright lad, alright." England said, a slight smile on his lips but a heavy sadness in his eyes.
"...England?"
"Oi England!" Scotland burst through the door, looking not at all pleased. He nearly ran over Falklands with his haste to get to England's desk and slam his hands down on it hard enough to make the floor shake. "I've 'ad it up to 'ere with this Haig o' yers!"
England gave a weary sigh and put his head in his hands. "Trust me James, I know."
"No, I don' think ye do!" the northern Nation had a smear of dirt across his nose that seemed too stubborn to come off. "Else he'd be off the front lines and in the loony bin where he belongs!"
"Look, Scotland, I have about as much choice in this matter as you-"
"That's bull and ye know it!"
Falklands wisely chose this moment to slip out of the room and vanish.
---
This was getting frustrating. The looks that all the post office people had given him were almost as bad as England's, the first post address was half a mile from the post office, and he'd forgotten to pump up his wheels before he'd left.
What was so bad about doing a stupid telegraph delivery?
Up the hill and over, the valley town came into sight. Letting the bike roll down hill, he eyed the letters in his satchel. Most of them were letters home from the war, right? He'd not bothered to check them; it wasn't his business what post people got.
He kept rolling, all the way into town, past addresses that didn't have letters posted to them.
Kept rolling...
Why was there nobody outside?
Was anyone here at all?
Wait- yes, there, people looking through the windows at him. This was weird. This was weird and creepy and he didn't like the looks of it one bit.
Slowing down, he stepped off his bike and walked it to a fence, leaning it against the wood and reaching into his satchel. The office had ordered them so he would just have to reach in and take them as he went around the pre-designated route. The paper envelope was crisp and clean and-- well, military. In the silent morning, he walked up the path and, seeing the curtains inside move, knocked on the door.
A minute later, he knocked again.
Huh. Maybe the person living here was old and took a while to get to the door? But no, the children's toys in the front garden told different. "Hello?" He called, looking around the house and into the windows. "Anybody home?"
A tiny muffled sound came from behind the front door. "Please just... leave it by the flowerpot." came a voice, a woman. Shrugging, Falklands did as told.
All along the road it was the same, people answering with the doors only half open, or not answering at all. By the twelfth house, he was getting very tired of this. He could understand women being insecure without their husbands around to protect them, but really...
"Um..." said the lady whose door he was currently slipping a letter under. "Do you have one for number 15, Baker Lane?"
Falklands rattled it off in his head. "Yeah, why?"
Uncomfortable shifting. "I'd be careful. She lost three of her boys and her husband, she only has one left."
And with that he was shooed out of the property, confused and bewildered. What did that...
Oh.
Oh.
Oh god, was that what he'd really been doing all this time? Battalions joined up together usually from the same area. That's why this town was particularly swamped with letters. If a whole battalion went down...
Dread choked him. He didn't want to do this. Delivering the news must make him seem like death himself. He couldn't. He'd have to turn back and-
-and what, get someone else to do it and sit at home as England felt every single one of the deaths he had written down in the letters in his satchel? Cower away from the reality of the world like some coward, like a child? No. He was a Nation; he couldn't hide from death.
Steeling himself, he pushed his bike down the street to Baker Lane.
---
England eased his aching body into the armchair, sighing once he was finally settled, a cold compress on his knee where it seemed to be particularly bad today. It was only a few bruises here and there, losses of lives, but the sheer amount made it hard to move. But those Krauts had to be taught a lesson, and there was no other way than-
The front door opened, and Falklands shuffled in, looking dejected. Ah, the expected result.
"You understand." he said simply, sadly. It was common for messenger boys, no matter what era, to be loathed for their bringing of the news of death on the battlefield. It was just so many this time. His male population was depleted by half.
Falklands looked up, revealing a swelling bruise around his eye. Surprised, England sat straighter and beckoned him over. "Oh my dear boy, who..."
The child scuffed his feet along the floor as he walked, and England didn't bother to correct him. "Mrs Browning from Baker Lane doesn't like me much." He mumbled. "I don't blame her."
"None of that." England said, taking the cold compress from his knee and pressing it to the side of Falkland's face, who winced slightly. "What happened?"
"I tried to give her the letter but..."
--"Get out!" she screamed, chasing him back down the path, face wild and desperate and glistening with tears--
"It's understandable..." England said quietly, noting the patches of dirt on his colony's shirt. "I'll have to get someone to wash this."
--garden objects flew, and a rock caught him near the eye. He stumbled backwards and fell on top of his bike. "I don't want- I don't want to hear it!" the woman sobbed, gray-streaked hair a mess and devastated. "Don't you come here with that letter, burn it! He's alive, they're all alive and they'll come home at the end!"--
"Who?" Falklands asked dully. "Everyone's off fighting."
England paused and fixed him with a careful look. "... I'm going back to the front lines tomorrow."
"You're--"
-- "I'm sorry, I'm going!" Falklands yelped as even more things were thrown at him.
"Don't you ever come back, I never want to see you or that bag or that bike again!" she screamed. She screamed and screamed and screamed until Falklands thought his eardrums would break, even as he cycled off at speeds nobody else could manage.--
"My boys are out there. I can't leave them alone." England said solemnly. "I need you to be a big boy for me, and go back to your islands for a little while, alright?"
No. He wanted to stay and help England. Even if it meant this, England was hiding many more bruises than his own. "Yes sir."
"Good lad, now let's get you cleaned up."
Notes:
- Falkland Islands - a small collection of islands just off the coast of Argentina. Serves no real purpose apart from giving England something to cling to because it's his only remaining colony today, until recently when oil was found. England and Argentina had a nice big war over it in the 70s. That was before the oil. Teeeeension.
- Field Marshal Haig is probably the worst military commander I can think of off the top of my head. Reason why so many British soldiers died was because Haig kept ordering them "over the top", where they would basically run out of the trenches and straight into machine gun fire in the vain hope it would break the lines. And he did this again, and again, and again for four whole years.
- Being a telegraph delivery boy in the war was not a fun thing. Not with the death count being so high. It was like being the grim reaper, riding into town with a satchel full of death. Many young boys were chased out of towns or off properties by hysterical mothers and wives that just didn't want to hear that their loved ones were dead.
- Dulce et Decorum Est, part of a full line in Latin, "Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori" which means "How sweet and fitting it is to die for one's country". Also the title of a war poem by Wilfred Owen, linked above.
Characters: Falkland Islands, England, Scotland.
Rating: 12
Warnings: The realities of war and the home front. The general fact I cannot write happy things to save my life.
Summary: Falklands just wants to help in the war effort, but he's too young. How about doing the Post Office a favor and delivering letters...
The was a brilliant idea, Falklands concluded with a grin as he practically ran down the corridors of England's country house. This might even have been the best idea he'd had this year. This decade even!
"England!" he cried, opening the door to his office without knocking. England looked up grumpily, deep bags under his eyes from lack of sleep.
"Yes, Falklands, what is it." he asked dully, pen paused over where he was signing papers.
The young boy bounced forward to England's desk. "I know how I can help out with the war effort!"
A curious eyebrow rose. "Oh?"
"Yes sir!"
"Well then out with it boy."
"I've volunteered to help the post office deliver letters!"
England's face fell slightly. Not with disappointment, but with a weary sadness. Not expecting this reaction, Falklands felt the need to clarify. "I mean, all the postmen are off to war, and the telegraph boys are spread pretty thin and I don't get tired so easily as them and I really want to help and not be useless. Please, England! I do my very best!"
A heavy hand landed on scruffy brown hair. "Alright lad, alright." England said, a slight smile on his lips but a heavy sadness in his eyes.
"...England?"
"Oi England!" Scotland burst through the door, looking not at all pleased. He nearly ran over Falklands with his haste to get to England's desk and slam his hands down on it hard enough to make the floor shake. "I've 'ad it up to 'ere with this Haig o' yers!"
England gave a weary sigh and put his head in his hands. "Trust me James, I know."
"No, I don' think ye do!" the northern Nation had a smear of dirt across his nose that seemed too stubborn to come off. "Else he'd be off the front lines and in the loony bin where he belongs!"
"Look, Scotland, I have about as much choice in this matter as you-"
"That's bull and ye know it!"
Falklands wisely chose this moment to slip out of the room and vanish.
---
This was getting frustrating. The looks that all the post office people had given him were almost as bad as England's, the first post address was half a mile from the post office, and he'd forgotten to pump up his wheels before he'd left.
What was so bad about doing a stupid telegraph delivery?
Up the hill and over, the valley town came into sight. Letting the bike roll down hill, he eyed the letters in his satchel. Most of them were letters home from the war, right? He'd not bothered to check them; it wasn't his business what post people got.
He kept rolling, all the way into town, past addresses that didn't have letters posted to them.
Kept rolling...
Why was there nobody outside?
Was anyone here at all?
Wait- yes, there, people looking through the windows at him. This was weird. This was weird and creepy and he didn't like the looks of it one bit.
Slowing down, he stepped off his bike and walked it to a fence, leaning it against the wood and reaching into his satchel. The office had ordered them so he would just have to reach in and take them as he went around the pre-designated route. The paper envelope was crisp and clean and-- well, military. In the silent morning, he walked up the path and, seeing the curtains inside move, knocked on the door.
A minute later, he knocked again.
Huh. Maybe the person living here was old and took a while to get to the door? But no, the children's toys in the front garden told different. "Hello?" He called, looking around the house and into the windows. "Anybody home?"
A tiny muffled sound came from behind the front door. "Please just... leave it by the flowerpot." came a voice, a woman. Shrugging, Falklands did as told.
All along the road it was the same, people answering with the doors only half open, or not answering at all. By the twelfth house, he was getting very tired of this. He could understand women being insecure without their husbands around to protect them, but really...
"Um..." said the lady whose door he was currently slipping a letter under. "Do you have one for number 15, Baker Lane?"
Falklands rattled it off in his head. "Yeah, why?"
Uncomfortable shifting. "I'd be careful. She lost three of her boys and her husband, she only has one left."
And with that he was shooed out of the property, confused and bewildered. What did that...
Oh.
Oh.
Oh god, was that what he'd really been doing all this time? Battalions joined up together usually from the same area. That's why this town was particularly swamped with letters. If a whole battalion went down...
Dread choked him. He didn't want to do this. Delivering the news must make him seem like death himself. He couldn't. He'd have to turn back and-
-and what, get someone else to do it and sit at home as England felt every single one of the deaths he had written down in the letters in his satchel? Cower away from the reality of the world like some coward, like a child? No. He was a Nation; he couldn't hide from death.
Steeling himself, he pushed his bike down the street to Baker Lane.
---
England eased his aching body into the armchair, sighing once he was finally settled, a cold compress on his knee where it seemed to be particularly bad today. It was only a few bruises here and there, losses of lives, but the sheer amount made it hard to move. But those Krauts had to be taught a lesson, and there was no other way than-
The front door opened, and Falklands shuffled in, looking dejected. Ah, the expected result.
"You understand." he said simply, sadly. It was common for messenger boys, no matter what era, to be loathed for their bringing of the news of death on the battlefield. It was just so many this time. His male population was depleted by half.
Falklands looked up, revealing a swelling bruise around his eye. Surprised, England sat straighter and beckoned him over. "Oh my dear boy, who..."
The child scuffed his feet along the floor as he walked, and England didn't bother to correct him. "Mrs Browning from Baker Lane doesn't like me much." He mumbled. "I don't blame her."
"None of that." England said, taking the cold compress from his knee and pressing it to the side of Falkland's face, who winced slightly. "What happened?"
"I tried to give her the letter but..."
--"Get out!" she screamed, chasing him back down the path, face wild and desperate and glistening with tears--
"It's understandable..." England said quietly, noting the patches of dirt on his colony's shirt. "I'll have to get someone to wash this."
--garden objects flew, and a rock caught him near the eye. He stumbled backwards and fell on top of his bike. "I don't want- I don't want to hear it!" the woman sobbed, gray-streaked hair a mess and devastated. "Don't you come here with that letter, burn it! He's alive, they're all alive and they'll come home at the end!"--
"Who?" Falklands asked dully. "Everyone's off fighting."
England paused and fixed him with a careful look. "... I'm going back to the front lines tomorrow."
"You're--"
-- "I'm sorry, I'm going!" Falklands yelped as even more things were thrown at him.
"Don't you ever come back, I never want to see you or that bag or that bike again!" she screamed. She screamed and screamed and screamed until Falklands thought his eardrums would break, even as he cycled off at speeds nobody else could manage.--
"My boys are out there. I can't leave them alone." England said solemnly. "I need you to be a big boy for me, and go back to your islands for a little while, alright?"
No. He wanted to stay and help England. Even if it meant this, England was hiding many more bruises than his own. "Yes sir."
"Good lad, now let's get you cleaned up."
Notes:
- Falkland Islands - a small collection of islands just off the coast of Argentina. Serves no real purpose apart from giving England something to cling to because it's his only remaining colony today, until recently when oil was found. England and Argentina had a nice big war over it in the 70s. That was before the oil. Teeeeension.
- Field Marshal Haig is probably the worst military commander I can think of off the top of my head. Reason why so many British soldiers died was because Haig kept ordering them "over the top", where they would basically run out of the trenches and straight into machine gun fire in the vain hope it would break the lines. And he did this again, and again, and again for four whole years.
- Being a telegraph delivery boy in the war was not a fun thing. Not with the death count being so high. It was like being the grim reaper, riding into town with a satchel full of death. Many young boys were chased out of towns or off properties by hysterical mothers and wives that just didn't want to hear that their loved ones were dead.
- Dulce et Decorum Est, part of a full line in Latin, "Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori" which means "How sweet and fitting it is to die for one's country". Also the title of a war poem by Wilfred Owen, linked above.