#wwi au
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Oh no help, why is my brain suddenly full of an RAF (or RFC) AU where Legolas is a pilot who gets the nickname “Greenleaf” because of how lightly and acrobatically he flies (and also he should probably be Irish or Scottish so the Brits can be derisive about his “more dangerous and less wise” people hmm? ooh or Indian! doesn’t really matter as long as he wears a lot of green so the nickname makes sense lmao) while Gimli was too short for the army but is a fucking amazing mechanic and basically single-handedly responsible for how amazing this unit’s planes are and how no matter how wrecked their planes are if they can get them back to base at all he can fix them, and Legolas fell in love basically the first time he saw Gimli work his miracles with that wrench and Gimli is not in love thank you, he is very very annoyed by this chipper pilot who keeps getting holes shot in his fucking wings and he definitely doesn’t like him at all and certainly doesn’t go out of his way to tinker with Legolas’s plane all the time and make sure it’s the absolute best machine in the air oh no nope definitely not dammit and he certainly doesn’t fret every time Legolas flies off into battle or comes back with his engine smoking again that fucker oh how Gimli loathes him! until one day he finally hops out of a just-barely-landed-successfully plane that is literally on fire Legolas what the fuck you idiot and oh and he stumbles what’s wrong oh no is he hurt oh no and Gimli runs over to help him up and instead they kiss right on the runway oh fuck—!
And the whole unit has been taking bets on this forever, so Commander Strider has to come break up the fistfight between Éowyn-who-definitely-isn’t-using-her-brother’s-ID-and-the-whole-unit-doesn’t-know-she’s-secretly-a-girl-NOPE and Boromir over who now owes whom money before Boromir’s little brother, the only one in the unit who hasn’t figured out that Éowyn is a girl yet, does something stupid trying to stop his brother fighting with “the fellow” he definitely doesn’t have a crush on Boromir please—!
Strider is so tired. He didn’t sign-up for herding idiots in love, he’s just trying to win the damn war, do you lads MIND???
Lord Mithrandir is sitting in his office watching the show from the window and laughing so hard, he fucking loves his deranged pilots so much. He has pulled so many blatant cover-ups for their hijinks, and everybody in high command knows that he’s tossing aside regulations left and right, but his units are the most successful pilots in the damn skies so nobody can do anything about it dammit. (He’s also definitely in cahoots with General Galadriel, who pulls his ass out of the fire every damn time somebody tries to bestow some kind of reprimand or punishment, and who gets regular “briefings” about his pilots that absolutely aren’t just gossip in disguise, and which she certainly doesn’t pass along to her granddaughter who’s engaged to Commander Strider, who definitely isn’t royalty in disguise, nope nope and also nope.)
#i don't even DO aus like this what the FUCK brain????#well i sure as fuck am not going to write it so if anybody else feels inspired PLEASE DO#plot for sale i offer it to you freely#gimleaf#gigolas#legolas#gimli#third wheel aragorn is the best aragorn#eowyn#faramir#boromir#aragorn#wwi#wwii#wwi au#wwii au#lotr au#lotr#my stuff#my writing#fighter pilots#snubfighter pilots#pilot au#aus
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Firm and Fragrant Still the Brambleberries
For @whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk. Happy Holidays! It has been such a joy to get to know you over these last few months. You are wonderful and brilliant, and I cannot wait to FINALLY be able to scream in your comments about my obsession with Semper Eadem without arousing your suspicions.
Many thanks to @velidewrites and @perhapsajacket for beta reading this first part of this fic and reassuring me that the Nessian vibes were working. And many thanks to @acotargiftexchange for putting together this wonderful event. Y’all are the absolute best! 🥰
Summary: When Nesta became a nurse at the start of the war, she could not have predicted a patient as challenging as Lieutenant Cassian Davies, nor he a nurse as captivating as her. As the same war that brought them together threatens to tear them apart, Nesta and Cassian must navigate the complexities of love and duty to find the way back to each other. A WWI historical AU.
For information about the historical elements to this fic, see the end notes.
This is chapter 1 of 4.
Read on AO3 or continue reading below the cut!
Chapter 1: Somerville College, Oxford
July 1916
“I think of you hour by hour. You are always close in your own secret place in my heart. I hold you in my arms when no one else is near. I kiss your forehead, your eyes, your hair. No, not your lips, dear, even in fancy. I have never in my maddest dreams kissed your lips. But I ache and crave and long for them, though—till you give me leave—I dare not even pretend that they are mine. Will you ever give me leave? You say No now. Yet I think you will, Avery. I think you will. I have known ever since that first moment—”
“He’s asking for you again.”
Nesta looked up from her book to see Gwyn Berdara’s head poking through the doorway. It was late—or early, rather, she realized, blearily squinting at the clock on the wall and rubbing her eyes. She should have retired to her bed in the dormitory hours ago, and from the pleased look on Gwyn’s face at catching her off-guard, her fellow nurse was well-aware of that fact.
“Surely someone who’s actually on duty,” Nesta said, yawning and looking pointedly at Gwyn, “can take care of whatever it is he needs.”
Gwyn snorted. “Apparently there’s no one except ‘Nurse Nes’ who can make the pain go away with her magic touch.” She waggled her eyebrows. “So it’s a good thing you’re still here.”
Bristling at the nickname that only one of the soldiers convalescing at the Third Southern General Hospital was shameless enough to call her, she replied curtly, “I’m not going. Tell him I’m not here.”
“I don’t think he’d believe me,” Gwyn said, grinning.
“And why is that?”
“Because,” said Emerie Carynth, appearing suddenly beside Gwyn and wearing a matching smile on her face, “I told him you’d still be here.”
Nesta glared at her.
“Not on purpose, I swear,” Emerie quickly amended. “But don’t think I missed that you have a copy of Dell’s new romance.” Nesta glanced down at the book she still held open in her hands, her attention briefly flicking back to the dramatic confessional love letter left she had been in the middle of reading. “We saw you try to hide it in the dining room when it came in the post. I bet Gwyn you wouldn’t be able to wait until you got home to start it.”
Returning her focus to her traitorous fellow nurse, Nesta frowned. “That doesn’t explain how he knows I’m still here.”
“He may have overheard me celebrating my victory a few minutes ago.” She smirked. “Gwyn has to take my shifts with Merrill for the next week.”
Nesta grimaced. The older nurse was brutal to work with, especially if she thought the VAD nurses like Gwyn, Emerie, and Nesta were shirking their responsibilities. She accommodating enough for the soldiers, but all the nurses knew to steer clear of her wrath whenever possible.
Gwyn nodded at Nesta’s expression. “And he was my next patient when Emerie found me.”
“And what? He forced you to come back here and bother me?”
“He asked nicely.”
“Weak, Gwyneth Berdara. Weak.” Nesta knew her fellow nurse had a soft spot for soldiers like him who bore their injuries with grace and good humor, willing to crack a joke or, if they were not too injured, gambol about the grounds during recreation hours. Especially if those soldiers were tall and dark-haired and unreasonably muscled.
Gwyn shrugged unapologetically. “Like he doesn’t make you flustered, Nesta.”
“He does not,” Nesta bit out. Exasperated, absolutely. Incensed, occasionally. Even, in rare moments, begrudgingly amused. But certainly not flustered.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of if you are,” Emerie said, grinning with a faux innocence that Nesta didn’t believe for a moment. “He’s not even my type,” she smirked. “But I have eyes.”
“I hate you.”
“As much as you hate him?”
“More.”
Gwyn hummed. “Lucky Emerie.”
Nesta raised an eyebrow in question.
“Oh, nothing. I’ve just never known anyone whose hate looked so much like desire before.”
Emerie winked salaciously at Nesta, who only rolled her eyes at her friends’ antics. “I’m still not going.”
“Sure you’re not, Nurse Nes.”
“Emerie, I swear—”
“He expected you’d say that.” Gwyn smiled, interrupting them. “And he told me to tell you that if you didn’t come help him, he’d have to cope with the pain through song.”
“Arse.” She had heard him singing with the men before—loud, raucous marching songs that seemed to be dictated primarily by enthusiasm rather than any actual musical talent. “So he intends to wake the whole wing if I don’t go? That’s asking nicely, Gwyn?”
Gwyn shrugged. “I’m sure Clotho and Merrill wouldn’t blame you for it.”
But they would, Nesta knew. When she paused her studies at Somerville to join the VAD and the military hospital that sprang up in what had once been her college, she and her fellow volunteers were told to make the patients in their care as happy as possible, no matter what. They were not to do anything that would cause a scandal, of course, but barring that, any desire was considered reasonable—extra food after mealtimes, a new pillow every hour, even time with a preferred nurse if requested. After all, they were exactly what the first letter of their organization’s acronym indicated: voluntary. They had no previous training, no credentials or certificates like those possessed by the professional nurses who oversaw them. What did they know?
Quite a bit, and often more than the so-called ‘professionals’. Certainly more than they did a year and a half ago when they first entered the service. Nesta may have been raised in a manor house, bred for marriage and comfort after the culmination of her studies, but the war had changed all of that, had changed her. She was no longer a stranger to fluids and grotesque injuries, to bodies and hard, messy work. Gwyn and Emerie were the same.
But none of that mattered, not really, to the more senior nurses, except for the fact that it made their jobs marginally easier. The VAD women were still expected to appease and please. So they did.
Nesta sighed, looking forlornly at the book she wouldn’t get to pick up again for at least another day.
“I’ll tell him to expect you in ten minutes, then?” Gwyn asked, reading her decision on her face.
“Yes, alright,” Nesta grumbled, standing and stretching for the first time in—she glanced again at the clock—three hours. She hoped that whatever nonsense she was about to face would resolve itself quickly enough that she could get home and sleep, although, she thought, as she began to gather her things, she wouldn’t count on it.
“Hope Dell’s book was worth it!” Emerie called as she moved out of the doorway and back into the darkened ward.
“I’m sure it was,” Gwyn said to Nesta, following Emerie out. “Piers’ letter?” She asked knowingly.
“Piers’ letter.” Nesta mimed fanning herself, and Gwyn laughed as she left Nesta to gather her things.
Grumbling about needing to find new friends, Nesta slowly made her way into what had once been the West dining room. With thin walls, cramped quarters, and a confusing odor of long-forgotten roast dinners mingled with astringent antiseptics, it was ill-suited to its current purpose as a hospital ward.
Almost as ill-suited, Nesta mused to herself as she wended her way through the beds of sleeping men, as she was to the nursing profession. Her friends seemed to take to the profession naturally: Gwyn had quickly amassed a staggering knowledge of illness and injuries and could diagnose patients quicker than most of the physicians; Emerie demonstrated a singular talent for using the standard physician-prescribed therapies in innovative ways to help the soldiers progress more quickly along their healing journey.
Nesta had no such mastery. She wasn’t incompetent at any task, and was quite good at many of them, but she did not have any particular specialty. Nor did she excel at the ‘appease and please’ aspect of her role. She had little patience for the soldiers’ petty complaints, their bored antics, their casual flirting. She did her job, cared for her patients professionally and efficiently, shutting down their attempts for favors and conversation and flirtation, and went home to her books at the end of the day. It was how she liked it. And it meant that, over time, few soldiers particularly liked her.
All except one.
At the sound of her approaching footsteps, Nesta saw him turn his head, a satisfied smile already stretching across his face that, had he been anyone else, would have caused Nesta’s heart to start racing.
As a man, Lieutenant Cassian Davies was magnetic. Handsome in a rugged kind of way, he was imposingly tall and broad with a body that, even injured as it was, spoke of lethal grace and destructive power. His face bore the proof of this: small scars cut across his eyebrows and lips, and his nose had clearly been broken and reset at least once. His hazel eyes often shone with a mirth that drew soldiers and nurses alike to his bedside, but there was an edge to them as well—something surprisingly hard and deceptively calculating. Like all of the men convalescing at their hospital, Lieutenant Davies had seen tremendous bloodshed, but he alone seemed to rise above it, to possess some inherent mastery over it. He was dangerous and desirable in equal measure, and though Nesta refused to join in with the other nurses when they gushed about him in the privacy of their dormitory, she couldn’t deny his appeal.
As a patient though? He was everything she loathed: loud, flirtatious, stubborn, and shamelessly relentless in his attempts to irritate her.
“Nurse Nes!”
“Threatening to wake the ward is a new low, even for you, Lieutenant Davies. And don’t call me that.” Nesta hissed, approaching his bedside and glaring down at him.
“Sweetheart—” Lieutenant Davies raised his good arm in an attempt to pacify her, but Nesta interrupted him.
“Wrong again, Lieutenant.”
He rolled his eyes. “Sorry, Nurse Archeron,” he apologized with mock contrition, affecting the tone of an impudent schoolboy brought before his headmaster. “I’m so glad you could make it. I was just about to treat the lads to a rendition of ‘Pack Up Your Troubles.’”
Nesta didn’t dignify that with a response, choosing instead to look over his chart to guess at what it was he might need. The sooner she could figure it out, the sooner she could leave Lieutenant Davies and his foolishness behind. She could make it through this without succumbing to his antics. She could be professional. She could.
Even with her eyes focused on his chart, however, she felt the weight of his gaze on her, deciding how best to challenge her attempt at professionalism.
And then he found it: “I still could sing, you know. You might benefit from hearing the chorus.”
She whipped her head up and saw his eyes spark with pleasure at having successfully baited her, but she was too irritated to care. “‘Smile, smile, smile?’” Nesta asked, biting out the lyrics.
“You already know the words! You’ll be a natural in no time.”
“Please.” She resisted the urge to argue further, forcing herself to direct her attention back to the chart in her hands. Could he want another pillow? Or more food? Was he due for—
“So, what do you say, Nes?” Lieutenant Davies asked, interrupting her train of thought. “Are you going to smile, smile, smile?” He grinned as he softly sang the melody.
“Your singing is atrocious.”
He scoffed. “It’s excellent. Now, my dancing—.”
“I can only imagine that it’s even worse, Lieutenant Davies,” she interrupted.
“Once I get back up on my feet again I promise to show you just how wrong you are. Don’t think I didn’t notice you considering a smile.”
“Enough.” This had to end. Nesta could feel the weight of her hair heavy on her head after having it tied up in her standard braided coronet all day, and that, coupled with Lieutenant Davies’ teasing, was threatening to give her a headache. “What do you want?”
“Nesta Archeron,” he admonished, and Nesta chose to ignore the way her body shivered at the sound of her full name on his lips. “We have got to work on your bedside manner.”
She huffed. “If you find it so appalling, there are at least a dozen other nurses who would be more than happy to assist you.”
“I told Gwynnie. None of them have your magic touch.”
“I’m leaving.”
“Nes—”
“Wake the whole ward for all I care.” She dropped his chart with a clatter and turned on her heel, ready to storm out
There was a pause, and then, before she could take a step, Lieutenant Davies called out softly, “My shoulder is a little sore.”
Nesta imagined it was. The report of his injury at the Somme had been a gruesome note in what was and continued to be the bloodiest battle of the war thus far, and one that just kept going, if the steady stream of new patients into the hospital was anything to be believed. A few days into the battle, Lieutenant Davies had been wounded by shell fragments that embedded themselves into his chest and shoulder, some dangerously close to his lungs. He bore the injury well, but from the lines etched on his face and the tension in his jaw, she could tell it ached more than he let on. He would be bedridden for at least another two weeks before physical therapy could begin.
“And you couldn’t ask Nurse Berdara for another dose of morphine?”
“You make me feel like I’ve earned it, sweetheart.”
She snorted at that. “Fine.” She stooped to gather the supplies she would need from a low shelf on the cart at the foot of his bed, then turned to pull on gloves and prepare the needle for the injection. “But only because you were due for one anyway.”
“Whatever you say, Nurse Archeron. I know you like me.” As she administered the drug, he began humming quietly, his body slowly loosening as it worked its way through his system.
“Done. Goodnight, Lieutenant Davies.”
“No goodnight kiss?” He murmured the question as his eyes shuttered closed, relentlessly flirtatious to the last.
Nesta watched the morphine lull Lieutenant Davies into a deep sleep. “For you? I think not.”
She turned and made her way quietly out of the ward, thinking of her bed and her book. And if her thoughts drifted back to a certain sleeping soldier and she smiled slightly? Well, there was no one awake to notice.
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August 1916
“How are you feeling, Lieutenant Davies?”
Cassian looked up from the casualty sheets he had been apprehensively scanning for his brothers’ names to find Sr. Merrill, one of the older nurses who oversaw the hospital, standing at the foot of his bed.
His arm fucking ached—not that he would say that to a nun. He hadn’t lost all his manners in the trenches.
Just most of them. And especially when faced with the pretty nurse who made him feel more than a little stupid with her honey-brown hair and sharp tongue. But Nesta Archeron was nowhere in sight, nor had she been for several days—attempting to avoid him, most likely.
So he only answered, “Still a little sore, m’am. But better than yesterday.”
Sr. Merrill smiled at that. “Well, I’m glad to hear you’re in good spirits. You’re to start physical therapy today.”
Cassian could have wept with joy. Although the injury had been localized to his upper body, the damage had been severe enough that the doctors had insisted that he remain bedridden and stuck indoors for at least a month. And he had, albeit reluctantly. For someone used to near-constant activity, whose men called him ‘the General’ for the drills he would put them (and himself) through between battles, a month of idleness was akin to torture. There were only so many card games a man could play or books he could read, only so many soldiers and nurses he could talk to, and (in his bleaker moments) only so many times he could catalog in minute detail the unidentifiable stains that graced the walls of the ward. Restless and bored, Cassian was more than ready to get back on his feet, to breathe fresh air and feel the sun on his face again. “When do I start?”
“Tomorrow. I have you scheduled with Nurse Carynth. She’s one of our best for physical therapy.”
Cassian knew her. Strikingly pretty and statuesque, she could out-swear most of the men and had earned her reputation as an excellent physical therapist through a combination of what appeared to be genuine brilliance and a singular ability to browbeat and cajole her patients into pushing themselves. He had seen her work with a few of the other men from his company, and knew that if anyone else in the hospital deserved the title of ‘the General,’ it would be her.
But he wondered—“I’ve heard she’s effective, yes, but,” He paused, looking for the right words, although he knew that Sr. Merrill and the other nurses were inclined to humor their patients’ requests whenever possible. “I was wondering if I could work with someone else.”
“Oh?” She looked puzzled, but pulled out a pen to note the change. “Do you have a specific nurse in mind?”
Cassian smiled.
He was still smiling as he sat in Sr. Merrill’s office the following day listening to an incensed Nesta Archeron argue with her supervisor.
“No.” She said, her blue-gray eyes flashing flintily as she crossed her arms. “I’m not working with him.”
Sr. Merrill raised an eyebrow. “And why not? Do you have an objection to working with Lieutenant Davies?”
“Yes.”
When Nesta didn’t elaborate, Sr. Merrill gestured for her to continue. “Go on.”
Nesta tilted her head, and Cassian could tell she was calculating her response. “It’s not personal,” she began.
Cassian snorted. He knew that it absolutely was. Nesta Archeron was the one nurse at Somerville who couldn’t stand him. From the look on Sr. Merrill’s face, the older nurse knew that as well, although she did an admirable job trying to hide it.
“It’s not.” Nesta turned to face him for the first time since they entered the office a few minutes ago. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed. He could feel the anger radiating off of her, burning cold and sharp and exhilarating. It had been over a month since Cassian had seen any combat, but watching her like this scratched the same itch, and he knew that he would do any number of unspeakable things to keep stoking that fire.
He raised an eyebrow in challenge. “Then what might be the issue, Nurse Archeron?”
She glared at his use of her correct title for once, knowing he only did it to irritate her in front of her supervisor, then turned back to face Sr. Merrill with a barely audible huff.
“My reasons are professional. I am not a particularly skilled physical therapist, and the severity of Lieutenant Davies’ injuries suggests that he’ll need special attention. He should be working with Nurse Carynth or Nurse Madja.”
Sr. Merrill frowned at that. “You’ll be following a plan of care left by one of the doctors, so there’s no need for you to do anything terribly innovative. That’s not your role here.”
“I know you’ll take good care of me, Nurse Archeron,” Cassian added, doing his best to look sincere. And he was, mostly. Nesta may not have been the warmest nurse at Somerville, but she was a damn good one. Not that he’d ever tell her that.
She didn’t respond to his comment, but Cassian was familiar enough with her expressions after a month of making a study of her to know she wanted to roll her eyes, and he couldn’t help the grin that began to break over his face.
“But I know how you VAD girls are,” Sr. Merrill interrupted, forestalling any further argument between them with a dismissive wave of her hand. Her tone dripped with derision, and Cassian’s grin faded as he saw Nesta tense, her spine straightening.“If you’re truly unwilling, I’m sure Lieutenant Davies will accept another nurse for his therapy.” She paused. “But I will be making a note in your file, Nurse Archeron.”
Nesta’s lips tightened. Cassian grimaced slightly as he observed her wage a silent war with herself, feeling increasingly ill-at-ease with his provocation of this element of the hospital’s hierarchical drama.
“Well, Nurse Archeron?” Sr. Merrill asked.
Cassian watched Nesta collect herself. The changes were subtle–her spine remained straight, unbowed by the weight of the threat, but he saw the way she banked the fire burning in her eyes until all that seemed to remain was a cool, professional detachment. He hated it.
But he knew her answer.
“I’ll do it.”
“Excellent.” Sr. Merrill handed Nesta a folder that Cassian presumed was his plan of care. “Thank you for wasting everyone’s time.”
Nesta took the folder and stood abruptly, stalking out of the room.
“Lieutenant Davies,” Sr. Merrill addressed him, drawing his attention away from Nesta’s retreating form. “I understand if you’d like to switch nurses after that … display.” She looked distastefully toward the door. “I have always believed that you boys deserve better than being subjected to the whims of spoiled ladies unused to hard work.”
Cassian stood stiffly, his injured arm aching from tension he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and frowned down at Sr. Merrill. “I meant what I said. I trust Nurse Archeron to take care of me.” His tone was sharp, defensive.
Sr. Merrill sniffed. “Of course. See that I don’t hear any complaints from your commander if you remain on the injury register longer than you ought.”
“You won’t. M’am.” With a sharp nod of his head, Cassian turned to follow after Nesta, moving a damn sight slower than he would have preferred. His arm throbbed and his legs felt heavy and stiff, aggravatingly fatigued already.
Nesta had stopped by the entrance to the ward, presumably to wait for him, her gaze focused off into the distance rather than watching his progress.
Cassian didn’t rush—wouldn’t have, even if he could have moved more quickly—taking the time instead to study her. She still wore the detached professionalism she had donned during the meeting, but her eyes were tired, wearied after the confrontation with Merrill. He wanted the fire back.
And he knew how to get it. Quashing his still-lingering guilt, he asked, “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”
She startled slightly, coming out of whatever reverie she had been caught in, and scowled up at him as he drew abreast of her. “I’m not in the mood for this right now.”
He smiled to hear a hint of spirit back in her voice. “I’ll take you in whatever mood I can get, Nes.”
She hummed, her gaze assessing and the set of her mouth unimpressed. “Let’s get this over with, then.”
With that, she pulled open the door to the ward and began walking deeper into the room, not stopping to see if Cassian was following after her.
He trailed along behind, noting that she passed the door that led outside onto the lawn where most of the other officers had been led by their respective nurses for therapy or recreation. The late summer day was inviting, after all—bright and sunny and warm after a span of rainy weeks.
Because of this, the ward was nearly empty, so Cassian called out to her, “I didn’t mean to cause any problems, you know.”
Her gait didn’t change, but he saw the tilt of her head as she considered his words. “That’s not an apology.”
“You’re right,” he conceded. “I didn’t know about Merrill. I’m sorry for having involved her. But,” he smiled, “I’m not sorry you’re assigned to me.”
“We’ll see,” she said, finally stopping and turning around to face him.
Nesta had led them to a room at the back of the ward. It was small and slightly dingy; he guessed that it had once been some kind of larder for the college before the war.
Cassian looked inside and then back at her, a question in his eyes.
She raised an eyebrow, gesturing for him to go inside. “After you.”
“I thought officers got to go outside for their therapies.” He looked back longingly toward the door to the lawn, the late summer morning streaming through the window panes nearly irresistible after a month indoors.
“Not the ones assigned to me. Everything we need is right here in this room,” she said. She wasn’t quite smiling, but he could see a hint of malicious pleasure gleaming at the corners of her eyes.
Cassian forced himself to smile, hoping that his disappointment wasn’t evident. Well played, Sweetheart. He turned to the only weapon he had remaining because he damn sure wasn’t about to give her this victory easily. “It certainly is, sweetheart. And we’ll get to be so close,” he all but purred, trying to ruffle her feathers.
But she only rolled her eyes and began setting up the space according to whatever was detailed on his chart, dragging a chair and a few small weights to the center of the room.
He turned to cast a final glance back, wondering what he could do to change her mind. Surely she didn’t want to spend the day cooped up inside too. What would she want? Would she want him to beg for it? Would he?
He would. For her. And for the outdoors.
But then the sound of a throat clearing delicately brought him back to the cell of a larder, and he returned his attention to Nesta. Her eyes were on him, head tilted to the side like a predator studying its prey.
“Positive you don’t want to work with Nurse Carynth now?”
Cassian looked her over, his gaze catching on the blue-gray eyes that dared him to call her bluff, and he smiled, a real one this time. He would play her game. For now. “Positive. Do your worst, Nurse Nes.”
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A few notes on the historical elements of this chapter:
— The title of this fic comes from Robert Graves’ poem “Intercession in Late October.”
— The quote that opens this chapter is from Ethel M. Dell’s Bars of Iron, which was one of the best-selling books of 1916. Dell wrote hugely popular romances and was successful enough to support her family on the proceeds of her writing alone, although her work was often disparaged by critics and criticized for being too sexual.
— Cassian is loosely based on Robert Graves, a captain in the 3rd Battalion of the Royal Welch Fusiliers, a poet, and the author of Goodbye to All That, a 1929 memoir about his experiences in WWI. Nesta is loosely based on Vera Brittain, a VAD nurse and author of Testament of Youth, a 1933 memoir about her experiences as a nurse and her postwar turn toward pacifism.
— Both Robert Graves and Vera Britten were connected to Somerville College, although they were not there at the same time. Somerville was founded as a women’s college in 1879; it was requisitioned by the War Office to serve as a hospital during WWI. Vera Brittain had been reading English Literature when the war broke out, and she took a leave of absence to serve in the VAD, returning to complete her studies in History in 1919. Robert Graves, after being injured in July during the Battle of the Somme (July 1, 1916—November 18, 1916) was sent to Somerville to recover, and while there, had a brief romance with one of the nurses.
— The tensions between the VAD (Voluntary Aid Detachment) and professional nurses was a real concern during WWI, although it has been dramatized here. Most of the volunteers were middle and upper class women and lacked both the skills of professional nurses and (for some) the propensity for hard labor and discipline. These tensions gradually dissipated as the war went on.
— “Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit-Bag, and Smile, Smile, Smile” was a popular WWI marching song, first published in 1915. The words were written by George Henry Powell and were set to music by his brother, Felix.
— The notice “Officers are requested not to throw custard at the walls” was real; it was found in Maitland Hall after Somerville was converted back into a college.
#nessian#nessian fanfiction#acotargiftexchange2023#acotar gift exchange 2023#nesta archeron#cassian#historical au#wwi au
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Lost, Drifting - Chapter 6 - Nothing Left to Lose
"I should not have kissed you, it was not proper."
"Did you not enjoy it?" It was Anthony's turn to stare at her as if she was standing on the brink of madness. Instead of staring back at him with her usual fire, she avoided his eye, twisting the hem of her sleeve in her fingers. "Was it bad?"
"Bad...?!"
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The day after the festival, Anthony and Kate take a walk and finally have a much-needed conversation.
Look at me, updating in less than a week. Happy Labor Day, I suppose.
We finally get that conversation everyone was dying to see, with Kate trying to knock some sense into Anthony's hard head. Apparently this is as much slow-burn as I could get done, lol.
Next chapter we'll be seeing another important conversation, this time between Anthony and our beloved Nurse Mary (Am I diving waaaay too deep in Mary's backstory here? Yes. Do forgive me).
2.5k of it is done, so I hope to update soon.
To all who commented in AO3 or reblogged this post, I love you all so much. The comments kept me alive here! So many wonderful ones, I almost cried.
To @harnitbee and @ladystanbury thank you for your helping hand and patient listening, I would have gone mad without it. You two are the absolute best!
I hope you enjoy this chapter!
Lots of Love,
Cee
#my writing#Lost Drifting#bridgerton#my fic#kathony#anthony bridgerton#kate sharma#writing#Kanthony#Memory Loss AU#WWI AU#Post WWI AU
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Hold On
@flashfictionfridayofficial
He can't see, can't see. Black, mixes somehow with flashes of dark, pressing on him. Help help what what. Nothing makes sense, there had been grey sky, sucking mud and then tumbling wildness, and darkness.
Noise from somewhere, weight pressing pressing.
Opens his mouth a little and the blackness is thick. Dirt. Buried. Buried in the earth.
Noise, muffled. So far away.
A shift in the darkness, noise closer and clearer.
“‘al’” then “‘tan ‘al”
That voice.
A shaft of brighter darkness, crackling as earth moves.
“Captain ‘all, Captain Hall.” The voice shouts more clearly, closer still.
Alec, dear Alec. He tries to yell back, but the earth is in his mouth, gagging him
Then a dazzling flash of white, too bright against his eyes
“Sir!” The initial shout is deafening “Can you move Sir?”
A hand, roughened by work, thick, course, so familiar grabs at his arm
He struggles, spits the clods of earth into the space, “‘m here Scudder”.
The hand clamps around his own, anchor-like, and yet so soft “‘v got you Sir, well have you out quick.”
Just for him, the calloused hand squeezes
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Posting a new ASOIAF fanfic after a long, long time!
World War I AU, featuring Jaime Lannister, his parents and siblings (yes, Joanna too), along with Sansa Stark and her loved ones, and a host of interconnected characters in a Westeros faux-paralleling Britain during the time of the First World War.
Inspired by @selkiesstories brilliant Hold On Love, We’re Still Fighting, with thanks to @starlightasteria for her support, here’s The War That Outlasted Christmas, the prologue, hopefully to be continued as a long work.
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Anybody want a Steddie WWI AU?
This is what I have so far, but I haven’t decided if I’ll continue:
The sky was broad and white from edge to edge. The sun hadn’t broken the horizon yet, but it was already lighting the morning fog, and turning the mist into a uniformly white scrim. Steve squinted against the brightness, but they weren’t allowed to look away. All down the line, their bayonets were attached, their guns loaded and ready to fire. One hundred yards away, the enemy did the same. It was a perfect mirror image. They stood at the trench edge and watched for the enemy, and the enemy watched for them.
Eddie slipped, staggered, slid three feet down the board. Stay low. He was a mud man, a golem made of earth, born from the wet gash of the trench. The mud in his mouth tasted like metal, and it was the taste of men he’d killed, the iron flavor of the men he’d loved and who’d died beside him. They’d all drowned in that mud, turning it into a human chowder.
“I see something!” Private Henderson shouted. “Two o’clock!”
Twenty sets of eyes swiveled to the right. Steve looked through his binoculars. There was something there, alright. He squinted against the brightness. It looked like a dog, or a small horse.
“Hold,” Steve said, “Looks like a donkey.”
“Sir,” Sergeant Wheeler said, “It could be the enemy.”
“They wouldn’t be such idiots,” Steve said. “Nobody goes over this early.”
Eddie was one throbbing nerve. His arms ached. He was a dung beetle scuttling across a busy highway. He staggered upright, then a shot from behind him sent him back down.
“It’s a man!”
“Hold,” Steve said. He could feel Wheeler’s eyes on him. “Hold,” he repeated. He squinted through his binoculars again.
The figure was more creature than human. Mud caked him from head to foot, making it impossible to tell race or uniform. His eyes stood out like great white holes in his face, and his arms were tied to something, crucifixion style. Steve focused the lenses. It was a wagon wheel, tied to the man’s back.
Steve had never believed in Field Punishment Number One. Both sides did it, sending men over the top as live bait, but he’d always seen it as a waste.
“Hold,” Steve said again. “It’s an FP Number One. Let him down.”
Pale hands reached out from the trench and Eddie collapsed into them. He didn’t care if they were German or allies. He let them pull him into the safety of the earth. Before he fainted, he heard someone saying,
“Corporal Harrington! He’s one of ours!”
#steddie#Steddie AU#WWI AU#eddie munson#steve harrington#historical AU#trench warfare#steve x eddie#military AU#stranger things
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unrelated doodle plus two rogers
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@hetalia-polyship-week
Day 2: Historical
Title: Tooter the Sweeter
Ship: Arthur Kirkland x Elizabeth I x Alfred F. Jones
Co-Written with: @phantom-wolf
Summary: Arthur both wanted to leave and wanted to stay, but not for the same reasons as his fellow soldiers. He wanted to leave because he wanted to get back to the battlefield. His country needed him, his fellow soldiers and friends needed him, and he took pride in serving his country as horrifying as it was. He took no pleasure in the muck and filth of the trenches. He found no valor in the bloodshed required to gain a few inches of enemy territory. It was hell. He didn't want to go back, but his sense of duty–of pride–screamed at him that he had to. He had something like a guardian angel, after all. Terrible shame for him to waste that.
He wanted to leave, but it was overridden by his desire to stay. He wanted to stay, because he feared that if he left, he would never see her again.
#hetaliapolyshipweek2022#arthur kirkland x elizabeth i#arthur kirkland x elizabeth i x alfred f. jones#arthur kirkland x elizabeth i (reincarnated) x Alfred F. jones#arthur kirkland x elizabeth tudor#ukus#HWS England#hws america#hws elizabeth I#wwi au#guardian angel au#cw: historical violence#cw: mentions of mustard gas poisoning#cw: trench warfare#cw: alfred is a ghost acting as arthur's guardian angel#arthur is a soldier fighting in the trenches#lizzy is a vad nurse#but don't worry the babies get their happy ending as they deserve!
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Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Adora/Catra (She-Ra), Darla | Mara's Ship/Entrapta (She-Ra), Catra/Scorpia (She-Ra)
Characters: Adora (She-Ra), Catra (She-Ra), Scorpia (She-Ra), Darla | Mara's Ship (She-Ra), Entrapta (She-Ra), Kyle (She-Ra)
Additional Tags: World War I, World War I AU, inspired by battlefield 1, One-Sided Catra/Scorpia (She-Ra), Tanks, Alternate Universe - Human, Stabbing
Summary:
I'm tired, I'll write one of these later, but
World War 1 au fic I promised back in January is here!
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The Time That We Love Best - RECAP - Part 11 of 13
So, you know how tumblr's dashboard has been made jankier and jankier with each passing update? I'm taking it into my own hands to make some masterposts of some of my long-form fics because even though they have a side-page on my blog, I don't know how long that will hold out, and this is easier to share anyhow.
The Time That We Love Best Prompt Fills - 54k words - a slice-of life/WWII/1950s Whouffaldi AU; to compliment the main story via prompts
Broken into thirteen parts because tumblr is a very webbed site.
Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5
Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10
Prompt Fills: [Part 11] - Part 12 - Part 13
Prompt 1: Dave, Meet Davey
[tumblr] - [FFN] - [AO3]
Prompt 2: Davey's First Film Night
[tumblr] - [FFN] - [AO3]
Prompt 3: Clara the Carer
[tumblr] - [FFN] - [AO3]
Prompt 4: The Smith Siblings, 1919
[tumblr] - [FFN] - [AO3]
Prompt 5: 23 November 1953
[tumblr] - [FFN] - [AO3]
More under the cut!
Prompt 6: Clara's Dream
[tumblr] - [FFN] - [AO3]
Prompt 7: First Flutter, Take Two
[tumblr] - [FFN] - [AO3]
Prompt 8: The Football Injury
[tumblr] - [FFN] - [AO3]
Prompt 9: The Bedtime Story
[tumblr] - [FFN] - [AO3]
Prompt 10: Randall the Owl
[tumblr] - [FFN] - [AO3]
Prompt 11: Photo Album
[tumblr] - [FFN] - [AO3]
Prompt 12: Last Night in A Full Nest
[tumblr] - [FFN] - [AO3]
Prompt 13: The Bairns Get A Cold
[tumblr] - [FFN] - [AO3]
Prompt 14: Budding Love or Touchy Friends?
[tumblr] - [FFN] - [AO3]
Prompt 15: Alternate Universe, 1917
[tumblr] - [FFN] - [AO3]
CONTINUED IN PART 12!
#The Time That We Love Best#Doctor Who#fan fiction#Whouffaldi#Whouffle#Clara Oswald#Twelfth Doctor#WWII AU#1940s AU#1950s AU#WWI AU#repostober#kinda
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ch. 12: in the time of cherries
Read Chapter 11 here!
in the time of cherries
a reylo (multi-ship) Italian World War I/1920s AU
Summary
In the summer of 1915, Rey and Ben are sweethearts in the small Italian island village of Chandrila. In the days of drinks at the Hotel Nymeve, village festivals, and the wine harvests, the lovers and their group of friends live the idyllic life. As World War I comes around, and Poe, Finn, and Ben are asked to fight, Rey’s future changes dramatically, and the love in her heart changes as the years go on. The group of friends find themselves changing with the Jazz Age and the Rise of Fascism on the horizon, and Rey finds herself asking her heart the impossible: to take a chance once more.
OR
The Italian 20s fic you may or may not have asked for with queer romance, copious amounts of wine knowledge, leftist propaganda, seaplanes, mafiosos, seaside hotels that are DEFINITELY not modeled after Varykino, and lovers torn apart by fate and war.
BG ships: Stormpilot, Gingerrose
Chapters: 12/25
Read Chapter 1 here!
Taglist:
@benwaitingforsolo
@reyofsunlights
#reylo fic#reylo#reylo fic rec#kore's updates#kore's fics#reylo fanfic#reylo fanfic rec#in the time of cherries#historic au#wwi au#1920s au#ben solo#rey#kylo ren
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I'm haunted by the beautiful potential in an Edwardian-era Persuasion.
A setting just after WWI, another time of major social upheaval--blurring class barriers, new ideas about gender roles, further crumbling of the aristocracy
Sir Walter blindly clings to the old order, barely thinking about the war except to lament the impossibility of getting good servants these days
Elizabeth Elliot styles herself as a bit of a women's rights activist, claiming this is the reason she remains unmarried
Anne would have served as a nurse if her father had allowed it, but of course he couldn't permit an Elliot of the Elliots to undertake such ugly work, so she stayed at home quietly undertaking the usual home-front charitable work
This war deepens the story's melancholy. There's not the same sense of the men returning home as conquering heroes. The world is changing, but is it worth what we've lost? Can we have hope for the future when all our optimistic dreams led to such slaughter?
The best way to retain some of Wentworth's glamour is to make him a flyboy. However, given their short life expectancies, I'm not sure how realistic it is to have him and several buddies survive the war.
A "band of brothers" in the trenches is also a decent analogue for their relationship
Harville's injury meant he was invalided home fairly early. Benwick's probably a wartime poet suffering from shell shock that only got worse after his fiance died in the influenza epidemic.
Louisa and Henrietta are of a slightly younger generation that hasn't been quite as scarred by the war. Their relative innocence makes them refreshing to a war-weary returning soldier
It's possible Wentworth is so shaken by Louisa's accident (and thus needs Anne to take charge) because it sparks some kind of PTSD flashback. (Though that may not be the best direction to take the character).
There's just so much potential to explore the layers--old wounds and new possibilities, finding ways to heal and grow and rebuild after pain and loss
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Lost, Drifting - Chapter 5 - I Just Want to Dance with You
All he wanted was to follow her to the dance floor, feeling the rumble of her words against his chest, the warmth of her body slotted against his.
If he could have that, only those simple, easy things, he would be content. He would settle for his lot in life, and accept whatever he had to accept. Was it too much to ask?
It was foolish of him to even question. Of course, it was too much.
________________________________________________________
The city festival comes and nothing goes the way either Anthony or Kate hoped.
I told you I'd be here and here I am with that kiss I promised. Don't be VERY mad at Anthony, he's struggling here.
A much-needed conversation is coming in the next chapter;
For @harnitbee and @ladystanbury my million thanks for all the support. You are my rocks!
For everyone reading, I love you all so much, your comments and kudos make my day better!
Hope you like this!
Love,
Cee
#my writing#bridgerton#my fic#kathony#anthony bridgerton#kate sharma#Lost Drifting#Post WWI AU#WWI AU#Memory Loss AU
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Some doodles
(Yes ik the first pic is fake but it's silly though lmao)
#ww1#ww1 art#world war 1#art#soldier#photo studies#sketches#doodles#oc#digital art#wip#war#history#wwi#i couldnt help myself i had to ksjdjskdjsks#guyz does anyone know why their spoons were so big back then cus ive seen pics and their spoons were huge lmao#yes ik the first picture is fake but i like it lmao#i wanna hug them so badly pls 😭#im such a history nerd im so sorry I'll get back to posting tf au stuff after this lmao
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and is there honey still
Kissing Mary Vance was nothing like kissing Faith.
This realization, occurring a moment after the kiss ended, Jem’s hand still at Mary’s slender waist, her normally pale cheeks as pink as a rare mayflower, was followed immediately by the understanding that he’d never be able to tell anyone. There was no confidant he could trust with such a secret, even if he could bring himself to so violate the rules of gentlemanly behavior. It just wasn’t done and that was before he considered speaking of kissing Mary Vance, who was accepted as Miss Cornelia’s adopted daughter, but whose personal history was never quite forgotten.
Susan, should she ever hear of it, would be scandalized beyond comprehension.
Jem would never eat another slice of her strawberry pie.
His friends and siblings would be confused, Faith put out, her pique covering any feelings of betrayal, for all that there was nothing binding between them.
Mother would be disappointed and Dad would shake his head.
The expression in Mary’s eyes, those queer eyes he now saw were the color of moonstones, told him she understood it all.
“It’s nothing to make a fuss about,” she said. Faith would have tossed her head making such a remark, her golden-brown curls shown to advantage, but Mary only looked at him steadily and let the hand that had been on his shoulder drop to her lap.
“You hold yourself too cheap, Mary,” Jem said.
“That ain’t—that isn’t possible,” she replied. “Anyway, what’s a kiss amount to?”
It was a good question, one Jem had thought he’d known the answer to, just as he thought he’d known the answer to the question she was laboring over at her desk in the empty classroom, a piece of paper scribbled over and crossed-out, grey smudges on the foolscap, on Mary’s white cuffs. She would’ve laundered them herself, being Miss Cornelia’s daughter not relieving her of her housekeeping duties, chores she’d call them though Jem knew none of his sisters had ever helped even pinning clean clothes to the line.
He supposed a kiss could be an ordinary thing, a peck on the cheek or the lips, a greeting, friendly and inconsequential as a wave, a forgettable gesture of a mild affection.
Kissing Mary Vance was nothing like that.
He could say, in all honesty, that he hadn’t planned it. He’d been pointing out something in her writing, a tricky bit she’d gotten tangled up in, and she’d been peering down at the page, trying to make it out. When she’d perceived her mistake, she’d looked up at him, her expression one he’d never seen before, victory and pride and delight all swirled together, altering her face from one he’d recognized without being aware of it into one he’d been startled to discover. Without a word, without a thought, he’d leaned in and kissed her parted lips before she crowed over her achievement or thanked him, the caress impetuous, a whim, irresistible.
She was irresistible. He’d grazed her lips with his own and in the space before the next heartbeat, he’d cupped her jaw with one hand and let the other drop to her waist to draw her close. He felt the most tremendous desire for her possess him, everything else dropped away. She tasted, quite impossibly, of honey, though that was perhaps because he had always liked honey best, and she was warm in his embrace, coming closer when his hand at her waist reached around her back, sighing a little when he stroked her cheek and angled her head to be able to kiss her more deeply. Every second, his desire for her ratcheted sharply upwards and she met him, her hand clutching his shoulder, her sharp tongue sweet in his mouth. She kissed the way a fast girl kissed but there was a terrible innocence to her response that made him know she’d never kissed anyone else, whatever she might have intimated to his sisters and her friends.
He couldn’t say why he’d broken away.
A sound in the hallway or her sudden stillness when his hand grazed her breast, the need to breathe, the pounding of his heart felt throughout his whole body.
“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” Mary went on when he was stayed silent.
“Are you sorry?” he blurted out, and hearing the words he became suddenly terrified that he’d transgressed, become that monster Reverend Meredith always warned of in his gentle way, a man consumed by his appetites, greed and lust. “Oh, God, Mary, have I made you do something you didn’t want—”
“As if you could!” she said, wry again, Mary Vance again as he’d ever known her. If she’d wanted to, she would have slapped him, he was sure of that. “There’s no person living who could make me do what I didn’t want and certainly not you, Jem Blythe.”
“That’s good, I suppose,” he said, chastened, still too close to her. Still tasting the honey-sweetness of her lips, feeling the sound of the quiet moan of hers he’d swallowed in his throat.
“We don’t have to talk about it anymore,” she offered. “Or ever again. It could be just something that happened once, like as if you’d knocked over my inkwell, and we can forget about it. If that’s what you’d like. To be easy about it.”
“We don’t have to talk about it anymore,” he repeated, agreeing. An inkwell knocked over would leave a stain, one endless scrubbing would never entirely remove. “But I won’t forget. I shan’t.”
“That’s good, I suppose,” she said, her old tone mixed in with a new softness. He’d mussed her hair and some of the loose strands caught the light, a far cry from the usual trig appearance Miss Cornelia insisted upon. He wasn’t sure he’d ever see this Mary again, but it might be enough, to have seen it this one time. It was more Walter’s way to say he’d carry it as a talisman, but Jem felt it without saying it, that to have this moment might serve him well in the future.
“Mind you turn that paper in,” he said.
“Mind yourself, then,” she said and turned away.
He wouldn’t see Mary alone for another ten years.
“Thought I’d find you here,” Mary said, sitting down beside him, facing the water. She tucked her skirt around her and made no effort to conceal her sturdy, scuffed boots. It was a cool evening, cooler by the shore, but she didn’t have a coat or even the old wool shawl she’d refused to give up before he’d left for France. He shrugged off his own coat and offered it to her. He’d be warm enough in his heavy jersey, one the fisherman down at the harbor wore when the wind picked up.
“Not Rainbow Valley?” he said.
“Why would you go there? You’re not a child anymore. Haven’t been for a long time, unless I miss my mark,” she said.
“No, you’re right,” he said. “Not for a long time.”
“You don’t have to talk to me about anything. Not about the War or Walter or being a prisoner,” she said. She said it without any particular tenderness, which was the most consoling part. He recalled, very dimly, that before she had come to Miss Cornelia, she’d lived through her own horrors, yet spoke of them rarely if at all.
“Don’t have to tell me about any French girls either,” she added and he laughed.
It was the first time he’d laughed since he came home. Since he came back to the Glen, anyway, and called it home without being able to fully mean it.
“Not much to tell there. I mostly saw nuns and the Red Cross nurses are awfully brisk, whatever their nationality,” he said.
“I’ve always thought Cornelia would make a good nun, for all that she’s married,” Mary said.
“Perhaps,” Jem replied. The waves kept breaking on the sand and it was dusk, romantic if you wanted it to be. Mary had his coat wrapped around her shoulders. Jem felt scoured, raw and empty.
“Why’d you come, if you don’t expect me to talk?” he asked after several minutes of silence.
“I guess because you need someone who doesn’t expect you to talk but who’s willing to sit nearby, without fussing over anything,” she said. “I’ve plenty of handwork and housework to deal with at home. I’m perfectly content to sit and be idle and there’s nothing you can say or not say that can hurt me. I’m not hurt the way you are, I can bear whatever you need—”
“They can’t at home,” he said. Mother, with grief in her grey eyes and grey in her auburn hair, and Rilla, grown into a mother before she was a wife, Dad with something more broken inside him than any of the rest. Susan and Dog Monday and the letters from Di and Nan, blotted and halting. Una, who might as well be one of the French nuns who tended him, all of them mourning Walter and trying to rejoice at his return. Jem, trying to keep them from hearing any of his nightmares, biting his tongue when they spoke at a meal of the future or the past.
“I know,” she said. “Faith Meredith’s married a Brit. Officer, Lord Something Hoity-Toity of Fancy Abbey-on-High.”
“I’m happy for her,” Jem said tiredly. “We were childhood sweethearts, that’s all.”
“I know. Just wanted it said so you’d know I know,” Mary replied.
“If she’d waited, I wouldn’t have wanted her. I wouldn’t want her to have me now, as I am,” he said. “Befouled, diminished—”
“Walter’s dead, Jem. You don’t have to speak in his voice,” Mary said.
“I wasn’t—”
“Yes, you were. If you don’t think I’d remember, after all those afternoons, those walks and rambles, listening to him, well then. You’d be wrong. I remember,” she said.
“I want Faith to stay as she is. Beautiful, golden, untouched, a lovely memory from my splendid childhood,” Jem said.
“Good Lord, she’d far better off than I thought, even without taking a castle into account,” Mary exclaimed. “Maybe her Lord Gawain-Excalibur-Avalon actually treats her like a women. A person.”
“I didn’t know you liked the Arthurian legends,” Jem replied, taken aback by Mary’s remark, choosing to deflect.
“I liked the sword. And the Lady of the Lake with her own place,” Mary said.
“I thought it would be like that, the War, knights going out,” he said. “I knew there’d be wounds and death, but I thought there’d be honor—"
“You always were a bit of a fool,” Mary said. “Stands to reason though, the way you were raised.”
“We had a—you’re right,” he said, realizing he did not have to defend his parents or Ingleside. “Mother was so careful for us to be well-loved. To live in a world where we might imagine ourselves heroes or able to speak with the fairies—you would have done better than I at the Front, Mary.”
“No one would do better,” she said. He braced himself for her to talk about his medals, his valiant efforts in the prison camp, how he tended those around him with what little he had. How many men had died in his hands, their blood the scent in his nose as terrifying as gas. “You lived.”
“It doesn’t seem like enough.”
“Come here, then,” she said, shifting to kneel facing him. The moon had risen and it suited her, her eyes gleaming like opals, her hair silver, the shadow soft around her bare throat. She reached a hand to touch his cheek, rough with the whiskers he hadn’t shaved for the past few days. “Come here, James,” she said and the sound of his name startled him enough to move closer. To let her draw his face to hers for a kiss.
For a moment, he was seventeen again and Walter was alive, the fields of France green, the chestnut trees in leaf. Then he heard a wave break and felt Mary’s hand move to the nape of his neck, her fingers callused, and he tasted salt mixed with honey. She beckoned him and he put his arms around her, holding her tightly, trying to lose himself in her embrace. Letting her find him.
They were alone with the moon and the sea. There was no hallway and Mary kissed him well enough there were no memories, not of France or Germany or Holland, not of the ship or the train or the graveyard with the stone too white, the wilting mayflowers at its base. There was nothing Mary would not do, no end to the comfort she would offer. His hands were at her waist and her breast, eased beneath her skirts, and she coaxed him on. When he brought both back to cup her face, she’d smiled under his lips. When he lay back against the sand and brought her to lie next to him, her head resting upon his chest, she’d come with him.
“I should have asked, Miller Douglas?”
“He married Ada Parker six months ago. I didn’t shed a tear, except that they should be happy,” she said. “To be honest, I didn’t fancy being a shopkeeper’s wife, but I would have made the best of it.”
“I’m alive, but I don’t know what I have to offer,” Jem said. Mary thumped him on the chest, hard enough to notice, soft enough to be nothing more than a scolding.
“You’ve yourself and I’m myself. You don’t have to offer me anything,” she said.
“That’s the first lie you’ve told,” he said.
“Then remember me. This. How it was, how it might be,” she said. “Grieve and suffer and if you want, I’ll be there for it. Or you can come round in a while, when you’re sorted out. I’m in no hurry. I’ve an idea of how to run a doctor’s house, no offense to your mother or Susan, and I’d like to try it out some time.”
“Will there be much pie?” Jem asked.
“There will be honey-cake, pots and pots of clover honey ready to drizzle. That’s your favorite.”
“Call me James again,” he said.
She propped herself up on his chest so he could see her face, the curve of her lips, her silvery hair hanging loose around her cheeks.
“I believe you meant to say, please, James. Mind yourself, then.”
Tagging @gogandmagog who posted this:
DIANA, teasingly: “You, anyhow. I saw you kissing Faith Meredith in school last week ... and Mary Vance, too.”
JEM:- “For mercy’s sake, don’t let Susan hear you say that. She might forgive it with Faith but never with Mary Vance.” From The Blythes Are Quoted
And @freyafrida who wrote "also want to write jem/mary fic now although i have zero ideas for anything apart from the ship"
#anne of green gables#jem blythe#mary vance#jem/mary#rarepair#canon au#post wwi#angst#tw: PTSD#romance#faith meredith#walter blythe#gilbert blythe#anne shirley#kissing#glen st mary#hurt/comfort#miss cornelia#mary vance is a total realist#POV Jem#veteran!jem
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Am I writing a World War One steddie AU? Yes. Yes I am.
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