Chapter Text
The Artilleryman, face streaked with dirt, and blood (whose blood is it? His own? His fellow soldiers’? He isn’t sure), stumbles up to the door of the one small cottage that is still standing, in pursuit of the figure he saw enter just a few seconds prior. Whether this person is friendly, he doesn’t know, but it’s the only person he’s seen in hours, and at this point, he is desperate. He tries not to let his mind dwell on the things he’s seen, and though the flash of the terrible Heat Ray is still burned into his mind, he is alive. He tentatively reaches a hand up to the door and gives three strong knocks with the last of his strength. When there is no answer, he’s about to give up and walk away, when he notices movement in one of the upper windows and, sure enough, soon hears footsteps thumping softly down the stairs. The door to the cottage creaks open very slightly, and a voice comes from within the darkness.
“Who’s there?” The voice is deep, cautious, but it doesn’t sound dangerous.
“Please, I- I’m a soldier. My whole brigade has been slain by the Martians, I’m the only one left. They’re all dead. Everybody. I saw it happen, I saw it.” The Artilleryman tries to keep his voice steady, but it is so, so hard. The weight of everything that happened that day comes crashing down on him, and it’s all he can do not to weep when the door opens. The man who opened the door is tall, taller than the Artilleryman, and brown curls fall across his eyes. He wears a white shirt and trousers with various tears and burn marks, and shoes caked in mud. He isn’t much older than the Artilleryman, but lines of worry and fatigue age his face.
“Come in. Quickly.”
The Artilleryman doesn’t think twice.
~
Once out of the grasp of the night, the man gestures to an armchair which the young soldier collapses into, the adrenaline sapped from his body. Lighting a candle, the man walks to the kitchen and returns with a half-empty bottle of whisky, two glasses and a piece of bread, which the Artilleryman graciously accepts. The burn of the alcohol wakes him up somewhat, and although his head throbs and his limbs ache with a dull pain, he no longer feels the urge to curl up and be welcomed into Death’s embrace.
The man goes to the kitchen once again, and returns with a rag soaked in water.
“May I?” The man holds up the rag, and the Artilleryman looks up at him and makes a small noise of approval. The man leans down to him and gently begins to dab at the cuts on his face, apologising when he winces in pain and occasionally going to clean the rag. He has kind features, the light of the softly flickering candle illuminating his features with a warm glow. His green eyes dart across the Artilleryman’s face, and, whether it’s the whisky or the embarrassment of being scrutinised so closely by a stranger, he feels a hot flush creep across his cheeks. Once the man is finished cleaning his wounds, he pulls another armchair to face the one the Artilleryman sank into, and the curiosity on his face silently begs for answers.
“What happened? Did you see them?” the man questions. He doesn’t even have to say what he’s talking about; the Artilleryman knows immediately that he speaks of the Martians, and he nods solemnly.
“They wiped us out. Hundreds dead, maybe thousands. I was the only one left. The Martians were piloting huge metal beasts, I saw them in the hoods of these machines. Walking hunks of metal. I don’t understand. They were impossibly massive, the size of twenty men. They were picking people up, bashing them against trees. Just hunks of metal! But they seemed… so calculated. Every single movement was so utterly precise. Our cannons were nothing to them, they—”
He barely chokes back a sob that rises abruptly, and the man makes a sympathetic noise, placing a hand on the Artilleryman’s furiously bouncing knee. At the touch, he flinches, and the man pulls his hand back, embarrassed, an instant look of regret flashing across his face.
“Sorry, I—”
“No, it’s- it’s okay. Just a reflex,” the Artilleryman replies with a small smile, taking a swig of his drink. The man returns the smile.
“I understand.” A short pause, then, “my name is George.”
“Call me Art. It’s the name the rest of my brigade used to use for me.”
The two sit in silence for a while, occasionally whipping their heads towards the window at the slightest sound. Art’s eyes begin to feel heavier; a mix of intoxication and exhaustion, and although he can barely stomach the idea of sleeping with the knowledge that the Martians could be watching them, fatigue wins, and, seeing him begin to nod off, George gently leans over and nudges Art.
“Come. You can sleep in my chamber tonight.”
“No, no, I couldn’t—" Art begins to protest, but George pulls a doubtful face at him, and he soon gives in, dragging his weary body up the stairs, George supporting his weight.
The bed hugs Art’s body, clothed in garments given generously to him by George, and he falls asleep almost immediately. The sleep is restless, however, and he is plagued by the faces of his fallen friends and fellow soldiers, while he stands paralysed, terrified, cowardly, screaming but with no noise leaving his mouth.
Art feels a hand grasp his arm and he jolts awake in a panic, blindly thrashing, until he hears George’s voice.
“It’s me! It’s just me,” he says gently, and Art’s heart slows a little. “I heard shouting coming from the room, so I came to see if you were okay.”
“Thank you. Just bad dreams,” replies Art breathlessly, once he has calmed down. George rests a hand on his shoulder, rubbing his thumb in a soothing motion, and Art’s heart quickens once again, the touch sending a wave of heat across his face. He silently prays that the faint moonlight peeking through the curtains isn’t enough to show his reddening cheeks.
George stands up after a few minutes, hesitating in the doorway.
“You should try and get back to sleep. Morning is still yet to come, and you need to rest after all you’ve been through.” As he turns to leave, Art calls out meekly to him.
“Wait. Could you sta—" He stops himself, immediately regretting opening his mouth. George looks at him curiously, walking back over to the side of the bed and giving him a quizzical look. “Never mind. I’m being foolish,” Art mumbles.
“You’re not foolish. Not in the slightest. Would you like me to stay here with you?”
“Please don’t trouble yourself.”
“I assure you, if it helps you sleep, it’s of no trouble at all.”
Art feels like weeping at the compassion of this stranger. He smiles at George, and relaxes back into the comfort of the mattress, while George sits himself down in an armchair next to him.
Sleep comes quickly once again, but this time it is peaceful, and it is safe.