blood_winged (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
blood_winged) wrote2011-07-02 12:23 am
blood_winged) wrote2011-07-02 12:23 am
Entry tags:
[USxUK] Theme: Hero [Summer Camp Event]
Title: For the Stars and Stripes
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Angst
Word Count: 1168
Rating/Warnings: U, funeral, serious!America.
Summary: A bit of a different take on the theme. Alfred knows that it doesn't take a nation to be a hero.
‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.’
Arthur silently slipped his hand into Alfred’s lax grip and looked up at him out of the corner of his eye. He hadn’t heard a single word from the man for the entire day, from the moment he’d picked him up outside of his house and driven to this place, until now. The young American was standing straight, his shoulders back, head held high and his hair carefully brushed, that unruly lock that always stuck up hidden under his hat. It hadn’t been Arthur’s intention to come here, and likely if he had known sooner he wouldn’t have been here at all, but he had received a text message from Alfred the moment he had turned on his phone upon arriving in Virginia and he had known before reading it that something was wrong. Alfred didn’t text him, he always called, something about preferring to hear a voice though Arthur was sure it was just because talking was easier than reading. When he had been handed a scrap of paper with the worlds ‘Arlington National Cemetery’ scrawled on it, he felt something clench around his chest and Alfred had walked around the car to get in, in full formal military dress. He’d tried to speak but the younger blonde had just shaken his head, quickly, buckling his seat belt and gripping his knees, gazing straight ahead.
‘He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.’
He didn’t have it in him to be annoyed at the man, even now, standing solemnly beside the open grave in the clothes he’d stepped off the plane in. Brown slacks, a light beige sweater… at least his coat was black. There was an American flag draped over the coffin, removed and carefully folded before it was lowered and a man who looked far too young to be speaking so beautifully recited a passage from a small black book open in his hand. Arthur recognised it – he had heard it many times before. The English nation was not a religious man but even he could admit that some parts of the book were quite… touching. Alfred couldn’t go to every funeral of every fallen soldier, as much as Arthur knew he would have wanted to. This man must have been special to warrant such sudden attention.
‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.’
Slowly, the gathered crowd began to filter away, but Alfred stayed. He didn’t move closer to the grave nor speak, simply looked at it with a faint glassy sheen over his eyes until Arthur gently squeezed his arm, and then he drew in a soft gasp as if snapped from a daze and shifted his eyes over to the man beside him. Arthur looked up at his face, quiet and concerned, and he tried to smile but it was more of a twitch. He took off his hat, Nantucket springing free, and he wet his lips with the tip of his tongue as if he wanted to speak but all he managed to do was laugh – a soft, near-breathless sound. A hand on his cheek turned his face towards his partner and he tried to smile again, gave up and moved close to the man beside him, wrapping both arms tight around his smaller form and burying his head against the curve of Arthur’s shoulder. Momentarily stiff with surprise it took a moment before Arthur slowly lowered his hands to Alfred’s shoulders, gently rubbing circles over his back, then just holding onto him, trying to reassure him without words.
Alfred was crying. He wasn’t making a sound but Arthur didn’t have to hear him to know. It wasn’t mentioned, he just stood and stroked his fingers through that sunny blonde hair, the colour made dull by the gathering grey clouds, until Alfred had composed himself enough to look up, back over to the grave site.
‘Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.’
“He was one of my guys in World War Two,” he said, his voice hushed and slightly hoarse. “He was great, he… he took me under his wing. He helped me so much.”
Arthur looked over to the headstone, read the name, and smiled. “You must be very proud,” he murmured. Alfred made a sound that was almost a laugh but not quite and lifted one hand to discreetly wipe the tears from his eyes while Arthur pretended not to notice.
“That’s the weirdest thing, Arts,” Alfred told him, not letting up his hold on the man for a moment. “I was, and I am, but… I think he was prouder of me. Not… directly, I mean, he liked me fine but... he’d always talk about how… how happy he was to be able to serve his country. He’d talk about how great America was, and… Arthur, I don’t understand.”
“What don’t you understand, sweetheart…” He pushed his fingers into Alfred’s hair and scratched his nails gently over his scalp, feeling the young American nation shudder once, then relax just a little.
“I don’t… understand… when people say that one country did this or another did that… When they say that… ‘America’ is doing something… because… it isn’t me, it isn’t the people sitting up in Washington, it’s people like him.”
The English nation made a quiet ‘hm’ sound and let the other man shift back, looking up at him with a soft expression as he gazed at the grave and then looked back down at his companion. His attempt to smile was more successful this time, and Arthur felt a certain kind of relief in seeing it. As much as he would often protest that Alfred needed to be more serious he would be one of the first to admit that it didn’t really suit him.
“Don’t tell anyone I told you this, Arts…” he muttered, leaning down, touching his nose to Arthur’s and closing his eyes. “But… that man there… and every man here… is a better hero than I’ll ever be.”
“I won’t tell a soul,” Arthur whispered, catching hold of one of Alfred’s hands and lacing their fingers together. “Come on,” he went on, giving a gentle tug. Alfred nodded, smiled again, and worked his hand free to turn and give a sharp salute.
“At ease, soldier,” he said, giving one last look and then turning back to Arthur, grabbing his hand again and walking back with him to the car, leaving the long rows of clean white headstones behind.
‘Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.’
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Angst
Word Count: 1168
Rating/Warnings: U, funeral, serious!America.
Summary: A bit of a different take on the theme. Alfred knows that it doesn't take a nation to be a hero.
*****
‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.’
Arthur silently slipped his hand into Alfred’s lax grip and looked up at him out of the corner of his eye. He hadn’t heard a single word from the man for the entire day, from the moment he’d picked him up outside of his house and driven to this place, until now. The young American was standing straight, his shoulders back, head held high and his hair carefully brushed, that unruly lock that always stuck up hidden under his hat. It hadn’t been Arthur’s intention to come here, and likely if he had known sooner he wouldn’t have been here at all, but he had received a text message from Alfred the moment he had turned on his phone upon arriving in Virginia and he had known before reading it that something was wrong. Alfred didn’t text him, he always called, something about preferring to hear a voice though Arthur was sure it was just because talking was easier than reading. When he had been handed a scrap of paper with the worlds ‘Arlington National Cemetery’ scrawled on it, he felt something clench around his chest and Alfred had walked around the car to get in, in full formal military dress. He’d tried to speak but the younger blonde had just shaken his head, quickly, buckling his seat belt and gripping his knees, gazing straight ahead.
‘He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.’
He didn’t have it in him to be annoyed at the man, even now, standing solemnly beside the open grave in the clothes he’d stepped off the plane in. Brown slacks, a light beige sweater… at least his coat was black. There was an American flag draped over the coffin, removed and carefully folded before it was lowered and a man who looked far too young to be speaking so beautifully recited a passage from a small black book open in his hand. Arthur recognised it – he had heard it many times before. The English nation was not a religious man but even he could admit that some parts of the book were quite… touching. Alfred couldn’t go to every funeral of every fallen soldier, as much as Arthur knew he would have wanted to. This man must have been special to warrant such sudden attention.
‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.’
Slowly, the gathered crowd began to filter away, but Alfred stayed. He didn’t move closer to the grave nor speak, simply looked at it with a faint glassy sheen over his eyes until Arthur gently squeezed his arm, and then he drew in a soft gasp as if snapped from a daze and shifted his eyes over to the man beside him. Arthur looked up at his face, quiet and concerned, and he tried to smile but it was more of a twitch. He took off his hat, Nantucket springing free, and he wet his lips with the tip of his tongue as if he wanted to speak but all he managed to do was laugh – a soft, near-breathless sound. A hand on his cheek turned his face towards his partner and he tried to smile again, gave up and moved close to the man beside him, wrapping both arms tight around his smaller form and burying his head against the curve of Arthur’s shoulder. Momentarily stiff with surprise it took a moment before Arthur slowly lowered his hands to Alfred’s shoulders, gently rubbing circles over his back, then just holding onto him, trying to reassure him without words.
Alfred was crying. He wasn’t making a sound but Arthur didn’t have to hear him to know. It wasn’t mentioned, he just stood and stroked his fingers through that sunny blonde hair, the colour made dull by the gathering grey clouds, until Alfred had composed himself enough to look up, back over to the grave site.
‘Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.’
“He was one of my guys in World War Two,” he said, his voice hushed and slightly hoarse. “He was great, he… he took me under his wing. He helped me so much.”
Arthur looked over to the headstone, read the name, and smiled. “You must be very proud,” he murmured. Alfred made a sound that was almost a laugh but not quite and lifted one hand to discreetly wipe the tears from his eyes while Arthur pretended not to notice.
“That’s the weirdest thing, Arts,” Alfred told him, not letting up his hold on the man for a moment. “I was, and I am, but… I think he was prouder of me. Not… directly, I mean, he liked me fine but... he’d always talk about how… how happy he was to be able to serve his country. He’d talk about how great America was, and… Arthur, I don’t understand.”
“What don’t you understand, sweetheart…” He pushed his fingers into Alfred’s hair and scratched his nails gently over his scalp, feeling the young American nation shudder once, then relax just a little.
“I don’t… understand… when people say that one country did this or another did that… When they say that… ‘America’ is doing something… because… it isn’t me, it isn’t the people sitting up in Washington, it’s people like him.”
The English nation made a quiet ‘hm’ sound and let the other man shift back, looking up at him with a soft expression as he gazed at the grave and then looked back down at his companion. His attempt to smile was more successful this time, and Arthur felt a certain kind of relief in seeing it. As much as he would often protest that Alfred needed to be more serious he would be one of the first to admit that it didn’t really suit him.
“Don’t tell anyone I told you this, Arts…” he muttered, leaning down, touching his nose to Arthur’s and closing his eyes. “But… that man there… and every man here… is a better hero than I’ll ever be.”
“I won’t tell a soul,” Arthur whispered, catching hold of one of Alfred’s hands and lacing their fingers together. “Come on,” he went on, giving a gentle tug. Alfred nodded, smiled again, and worked his hand free to turn and give a sharp salute.
“At ease, soldier,” he said, giving one last look and then turning back to Arthur, grabbing his hand again and walking back with him to the car, leaving the long rows of clean white headstones behind.
‘Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.’
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Lovely ficlet.
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*nod* They are true heroes. *a small grin*
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(oh, and you made me cry)
<3<3
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Glad you liked it :)
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No matter what happens, you are still a hero to us Alfred. (:
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