Chapter Text
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Roscoff, France. 1815 / September.
Roscoff, early campaign. The horde is pressing in.
The church doors slammed open with a bang that echoed through the vaulted ceiling.
Gunmetal and leather surged through the entrance—U.S. Marines, soaked to the bone, their boots clacking across the stone floor as they shoved the heavy doors shut behind them. A sharp
clang
followed, wood scraped across the floor, iron dropped into place.
They were barricading themselves in.
The pews creaked. Half a dozen figures turned toward the noise—British uniforms, ragged and stiff, their hands tied or clasped behind their backs. Most looked up in confusion. One looked up with a smirk.
“ Jesus Christ ,” one of the other Marines muttered, catching sight of the lone Frenchman standing near the altar, musket raised halfway and face pale. “Only one frog left?”
"Attends, attends! Écoutez-moi !"
The french man, now sweating profusely, started to speak up.
"Vous voulez savoir où se trouve le diplomate, n’est-ce pas ? Si vous me tuez, vous ne le trouverez jamais !"
A tense standoff flickered in the air, A marine raised a brow. Most of them are sitting in silence. But the Marine lieutenant raised his hand.
“The fuck is he saying?”
One of the redcoats whistled sharply from the pews, drawing their attention.
“You’re searching for the diplomat right? He’s asking.”
The Frenchman pointed toward the old hatch behind the altar.
"Il est dans une ferme. Traversez les catacombes, et vous y arriverez facilement."
“Go through the catacombs, the diplomats in the farmhouse. It’s easier that way.”
The Marines exchanged looks. They needed to go that way anyway; and now they had a lead. No point in wasting it.
“Make sure the catacombs are clear,” the lieutenant barked. “The rest of you. Check on the rednecks.”
“Hey, the guy who understood French. Speak up.”
One of the men stood up, a bugle clipped to his waist. The marines hauled him aside, considering he may be useful if more Frenchmen showed up.
Liam moved forward with another marine. His boots echoed across the flagstone, the sound oddly calm amid the tension.
One of the British soldiers—noble-looking, collar bloodied, wrists red from rope; sat a little straighter as Liam approached.
“Ah. Americans.”
His voice was clear, voice tinged with something between sarcasm and weary relief.
“We started to think the frogs were going to sell us to the crows.”
Liam didn’t answer. He crouched beside him, inspecting the bindings.
“Oliver Henry Smith,” the Brit added.
“Royal Army Medical Corps. Surgeon. Not a fighter, if that helps.”
Liam glanced up briefly. “Doesn’t.”
“Of course it doesn’t,” Oliver muttered, lifting his chin like it hurt to do so.
“Still worth saying.”
Another British soldier near him coughed—wet and rattling. Bloody, and pale. Oliver’s eyes darted over to him, then back to Liam.
“You’ll want to untie me,” he said.
“That man’s dying. Lungs filling. I can stop it. I’ve done it before.”
Liam hesitated—just a second.
One of the other marines muttered, shaking his head.
“Orders are not to trust 'em yet.”
Liam looked back at Oliver.
Green eyes. Sharp, Steady, Confident, even when bound and bruised.
“...You’re a surgeon?”
Oliver tilted his head, voice soft with dark amusement.
“Unless you’d like to hand me your axe and I can prove I’m not a butcher.”
A beat passed.
Then, without a word, Liam pulled his knife from his belt and sliced the ropes loose.
Oliver exhaled. Not relief, just acknowledgment.
“Much appreciated.”
And as he moved toward the wounded soldier, Liam watched him closely. The other soldier glared at Liam, knowing that this exact decision could potentially fire the both of them, or even worse,
Get them killed.
Oliver knelt beside the dying redcoat without hesitation. His sleeves rolled up and hands trembling from exhaustion and sore from being behind his back.
“Hold this.” He said without looking, and a Marine begrudgingly handed over a satchel that seems to have been dropped during the capture.
Oliver worked fast.
He tore open the soldier’s uniform at the chest with practiced precision, exposing the ragged, bruised skin underneath. Blood lightly drips from the mouth. Ribs crushed–maybe punctured.
“It seems he’s taken quite the beating. A bomber sneaked up on him and definitely pummeled him to the ground a bit too harshly.”
Liam crouched nearby, watching. He didn’t speak, just observed.
Oliver pulled a small —not military-issued blade—from the satchel. It was curved slightly, still sharp, despite the grime.
The Marines stiffened.
“What the hell is he—”
“Relax,” Oliver muttered, eyes locked on the man in front of him. “I’m not going to slit his throat.”
He pressed the blade to the side of the redcoat’s chest. The soldier jerked, instinctively trying to move away, but Oliver held him firm.
“This is going to hurt,” he said—not gently, just honestly. He made the incision clean. Blood spurted, air hissed, the soldier choked—then gasped.
The wheezing stopped.
Oliver sat back on his heels, breathing hard. Sweat beaded at his temple.
“Air’s flowing. He’ll live a bit more.”
One of the Marines swore under his breath.
“Hell of a cut.”
Liam leaned slightly closer, still quiet.
“You’ve done that before?”
“Too many times,” Oliver said, already pulling a thread from his bag to stitch the wound.
He paused for a heartbeat, not meeting Liam’s eyes.
“Men rot from the inside out on the field,” he added, quieter.
“You learn how to let the air back in… or you start digging graves.” Liam didn’t reply. But something shifted in his stance—shoulders relaxing just slightly. Understanding.
Oliver glanced up at him now, voice more guarded.
“You going to tell your lieutenant I played nice, or are we keeping that a mystery?”
Liam grunted, barely a sound.
“Depends. You gonna try and gut me later?”
Oliver gave him a tired, crooked smile. “Only if you give me a reason to.”
The soldier beside them coughed weakly—still alive. Well, barely.
Oliver reached for a bandage. “Name?”
“…Liam,” he said finally.
Oliver nodded once, tying off the thread. “Well, Liam. I think you and I are going to be stuck in this mess for a while.”
A beat.
Then Oliver muttered, half to himself, “Then you better not die, you brit..”
.
.
.
Inside the farmhouse.
The storm outside rages. Marines upstairs. The basement smells like mold, oil, and old potatoes.
The cellar had a few crates left intact. Rotting burlap sacks. Broken shelves. A coat rack with a single, mold-eaten hat still hanging like it was waiting for its owner to come back from war.
Oliver sat on an overturned barrel, candle stub stuck in a crack beside him. He’d patched up the coughing redcoat, handed off a bandage to someone missing three fingers, and now, finally, he was breathing again. Barely.
Liam stood a few feet away, near the rickety basement door, cleaning dried blood off his axe with a scrap of someone’s shirt.
Footsteps moved overhead—muffled voices of officers, strategy, diplomacy. The kind of talk men like them weren’t invited to.
Oliver rolled his shoulders with a wince. “So. This is the quiet part, is it?”
Liam didn’t answer.
Oliver scratched at his jaw. “Suppose I should be grateful. Last time I had a break this long, I was unconscious.”
Still nothing.
Oliver turned to face him, tone wry. “You ever talk, or is it a once-a-week policy?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“If what’s being said is worth answering.”
Oliver chuckled. “Fair.”
He leaned back against the wall, candlelight catching the green in his eyes. “You know, I pegged you as the kill-and-stomp type. Thought you’d have a little less… restraint.”
Liam finally looked up. “Thought you’d scream more. When I cut you loose.”
“I was tempted, ” Oliver admitted. “But then I figured, if I die in a French church tied to a pew, at least I die with dignity.”
Liam raised a brow slightly. “You think you’ve got dignity?”
Oliver gave him a wide, theatrical smile. “No, but I like pretending I do. Helps keep the hallucinations at bay.”
Liam blinked.
“...That was a joke,” Oliver added flatly. “Mostly.”
Silence stretched a bit.
Then Liam spoke again, low and slow: “You always talk this much?”
Oliver tilted his head. “Only when I think I won’t get shot for it.”
Another beat.
Then a thunk —Liam slid the axe into his belt and sat down against the far wall, knees bent. Not quite relaxed. But not on edge either.
It was the closest thing to an olive branch either of them had offered.
Upstairs, someone laughed. Downstairs, it was quiet.
Oliver exhaled, letting his head fall back against the stone.
“…You think any of us are making it out of this?”
Liam didn’t respond immediately.
But then: “Some will.”
Oliver looked over. “You?”
Liam stared straight ahead. “Not sure it matters.”
Oliver gave a soft snort, smiling like it wasn’t funny. “Hell of a thing, not mattering.”
The candle sputtered in the draft. Somewhere in the darkness, the floor creaked.Absolutely. This is a great moment to layer the mood: not soon after, rain starts again. Footsteps above signal change. The basement won’t be a safe haven for lon g.
The door creaked open at the top of the basement stairs.
A pair of boots thudded down—one of the Marines, rifle slung, face tight with fresh urgency. “Orders just came in. We’re pulling out. Headed for the docks.”
A few groans of protest echoed in the basement.
“Now?” a medic muttered, hands still wrapped in blood-soaked gauze. “We’ve been here twenty bloody minutes.”
“Diplomat’s got what he needs. We need to get moving before any more vampires get here.”
the Marine snapped. “If you’re breathing, you’re moving.”
Liam stood instantly, expression unreadable. Oliver, meanwhile, groaned and pushed himself upright, dragging his satchel onto one shoulder again.
“God forbid the diplomat gets damp,” Oliver muttered. “Let’s risk death for his paperwork.”
No one laughed.
The group funneled up the stairs. Sappers, medics, redcoats—most quiet. Most tired. The sound of wet boots and distant thunder filled the gaps between breath.
By the time they emerged outside, the sky had already darkened into that grayish blue that promised rain and worse.
The road to the docks wasn’t far—just a mile or so through the outskirts of Roscoff. But the tension followed them, thick and slow.
Oliver fell into step beside Liam, glancing over as they walked.
For a while, neither spoke.
Then, Oliver leaned forward just slightly, peering at Liam’s jawline.
“Huh,” he said.
Liam side-eyed him. “What.”
“You’ve got moles.”
Liam raised a brow. “And?”
“Nothing, just—surprised.” Oliver gestured vaguely to Liam’s scarred face and broad frame. “You look like someone ironed a man together in a forge. I didn’t expect freckles.”
“They’re not freckles.”
“They’re cute,” Oliver said flatly. “Don’t get defensive.”
Liam made a noise—half grunt, half laugh—but kept walking.
Oliver wasn’t done. “You wear a ring, too?”
Liam glanced down.
The silver band hung from a leather cord around his neck, bouncing gently with each step. The metal was dull, worn smooth from being touched too often.
Oliver raised a brow. “Wedding?”
Liam didn’t answer.
“You don’t strike me as married.”
“She’s back home.”
Oliver blinked, a bit caught off guard by the answer. He softened just slightly.
“Hm. I hope she’s smart.”
“She is.”
“Beautiful?”
“She horse-rides,” Liam muttered, like that explained everything.
Oliver let out a short laugh. “Good lord. You’re a romantic .”
“No.”
“Oh, you absolutely are,” Oliver grinned. “Big angry man in the rain, fighting monsters and carrying his wife’s ring around his neck? It’s practically poetry.”
Liam didn’t dignify that with a response.
They passed an abandoned farmhouse—windows blown out, a scarecrow impaled on its own post. The sky started to spit rain again. The kind of rain that brought smell up from the dead in the ground.
Oliver fell quiet for a bit.
Then, softer, “I had someone too. Once.”
Liam glanced over.
“Didn’t last,” Oliver said simply. “Or maybe I didn’t. Hard to say.”
They didn’t talk for a while after that.
The docks loomed ahead. Broken masts. Ripped sails. Ships half-sunk in the bay. The air stank of fish, salt, and something deeper—something rotting.
A bell rang faintly in the mist.
Behind them, distant groans echoed through the hills.
By the time they reached the docks, the rain was falling sideways. The sea frothed like it was boiling, wind clawing at sails that barely held together. Half the ships that once stood proud along the harbor were either sinking, smoking, or picked clean by scavengers.
The diplomat was already boarding, flanked by officers and shouting over the chaos.
“Get on board— now! We’re casting off with or without you!”
Oliver reached the planks first, soaked through and already panting. He looked up at the listing ship and muttered, “I liked the basement better.”
Liam caught up behind him, shouldering an injured sapper like he weighed nothing. The man was unconscious, leg missing below the knee. Still bleeding.
They didn’t get halfway across the dock before the moans started.
Low. Familiar. Echoing across the water.
Then came the screams— closer than they should’ve been .
“Behind us!” someone yelled.
Through the mist, shambling silhouettes emerged—dozens of them, then hundreds. Crawling from the shore, from the shipyards, climbing over crates and broken gangways like barnacles on wood. Faces torn, teeth gnashing.
“They followed us,” Liam growled.
“No, no, no,” Oliver hissed, turning to see the wave of corpses stumbling toward the loading dock. “There’s too many–”
“Get to the capstans!” a Marine barked. “We push this thing out to sea or we all rot here!”
The crew scrambled to the massive turning wheels at either side of the dock— the capstans that pulled the heavy mooring lines in. They took four to a wheel, sometimes more.
Liam grabbed one of the beams and shoved his shoulder into it, muscles straining.
Oliver reached the other side, shoving next to some fellow Brits, most already wheezing.
He pushed, teeth gritted, slipping on wet wood.
One American behind him shouted, “Have you EVER pushed a capstan before?! Move, you tea-drinking skeletons!”
Oliver didn’t miss a beat. “ Your bloody capstans are stolen from OUR ships! This one smells British!”
“Then PUSH like you mean it!”
The ship creaked, ropes snapping taut. The moaning was getting louder. Closer.
Liam turned just as a zombie leapt from the side of a collapsed dinghy, arms flailing. With one brutal swing, he split the thing’s head open like overripe fruit.
“Keep pushing!” someone screamed.
A gun went off right by Oliver’s ear. He blinked, disoriented, then saw the shooter: a trembling Marine firing into the crowd.
Oliver shoved harder. Every muscle in his arms screamed. His side throbbed from earlier.
Suddenly— release. The capstan spun loose. The ship groaned and began to drift.
“Let go!” someone barked. “ Get on board! ”
Liam was already hauling men by their collars, tossing them across the gangplank as the ship pulled away. The mooring line snapped like a whip, and the vessel lurched into open water.
Bodies still shambled on the dock. Some fell into the sea. Others clung to ropes that now dragged through the waves.
But the worst was over.
Or so they thought.
Later, the ship had steadied. Sails full. Crew silent. Just the slap of the ocean and the smell of salt, blood, and gunpowder.
Oliver leaned against a crate, trying not to vomit. He’d stitched three wounds, tied off one artery, and nearly blacked out twice.
“ …Did you hear that?”
It was faint.
Something shifting—dragging—beneath the floorboards.
Then—
Thud
Scratch-scratch
thud
A scream.
Then chaos.
One of the hatches on the deck burst open.
One of the marines took a peek, before all the blood left his face.
“V-VAMPIRES! In the hold! GET READY—!”
The ship tilted as men scrambled.
Liam was already moving, axe in hand, yelling back at Oliver—“Get the wounded topside!”
Oliver tried to stand. His head swam. His heart raced.
Something was wrong.
Everything was too loud. He could hear every heartbeat around him. Every wet breath. The blood pumping in Liam’s neck—
He blinked hard. Shook his head.
Not now. Not yet.
He stood there, trembling, face pale, one hand gripping the railing hard enough to whiten his knuckles.
Liam turned toward him. “You alright?”
“I—” Oliver swallowed. “I don’t know.”
Liam’s eyes narrowed, noticing how Oliver hadn’t drawn blood. How his sleeves were clean despite the mess. How he looked too pale.
Oliver saw the suspicion flicker across his face.
He looked away.
“I’m fine.”
But the ring around Liam’s neck caught his eye again—gleaming in the stormlight, spinning gently.
And Oliver, suddenly sick with the urge he couldn’t explain, whispered:
“...Why’d you keep her ring on you?”
Then the screams rose again-louder this time.
The zombies burst open the hatch, leaving marines screaming.
The now rotten crew were pouring out of the dark like rats from a grain silo. One of them lunged onto the deck, dragging a Marine with him.
Liam swung fast. Blood sprayed. Another body was dumped into the sea.
Oliver half-crawled for cover, ears ringing.
He pulled a pistol from a dead man’s belt and fired into a shrieking corpse climbing the rigging. The thing fell into the ocean, twitching.
“Start dumping bodies!” a voice screamed. “If they’re bit—toss ‘EM!”
Men began throwing corpses—and in some cases, barely conscious survivors—over the side. There wasn’t time to check for symptoms.
“AGHK! VOTRE FOUTU ÉQUIPAGE NOUS A TRAHIS !”
The ship rocked as rotten crewmen swarmed out from the hold—bloated, stinking, eyes wild with hunger.
“GET THEM OFF ME!” someone shouted.
Liam fought like he’d done this before—heaving the axe in vicious arcs, cracking bone and muscle with practiced rage.
“Keep them from the sails!” someone shouted above.
One of the infected lunged for the ropes. Oliver fired—though hands trembling, it was a clean shot through the eye. The body crumpled to the deck, twitching.
“F-Fuck—they’re on the rigging!” Oliver barked, pointing.
“Not anymore,” Liam grunted, swinging upward. A thick, wet crack—the thing dropped like a sack of meat.
The sea around the ship boiled with the groans of more dead. A few tried to climb the anchor chains, scraping fingernails to the bone.
“Get those bastards off the hull!”
“Where’s the damn officer!?”
Liam ducked under a swing, slashed his axe into a zombie’s gut, and kicked it back over the rail. He panted hard, heart hammering.
“Remind me why we ever left the motherland!?” he gasped.
Liam shoved Oliver out of the way of another lunging corpse and split its skull clean through.
A Marine screamed near the helm—injured, blood spilling from his neck. He staggered, eyes wide, clutching at the nearest sailor.
“Wait—wait— please! It’s just a scratch— get a priest! Get a chaplain! ”
“Shut it you redneck.” the officer barked coldly, raising his rifle.
“I—I haven’t been bitten, I swear—”
BANG.
The man crumpled, lifeless. Another body for the sea.
Without hesitation, the officer kicked him overboard.
“Any bite,” he barked, voice cold. “They go.”
Oliver winced, frozen in place. He watched as their bodies were pushed toward the rail, the panic spreading like smoke.
“They’re not even checking now,” he muttered.
Liam’s jaw tightened. “No time.”
Oliver swallowed. “You know if he was patient–, he might’ve made it. The first twelve hours are… salvageable.”
Liam just looked ahead, scanning the shadows for more movement.
Oliver turned his head, voice softer.
“You ever get blessed?”
“No.”
“You should,” Oliver muttered.
“It’s not just superstition. They say you feel way better and less hungry by doing so.”
Liam glanced at him, axe in hand. “You believe that?”
Oliver shrugged faintly. “I’ve seen worse propaganda.”
“hah…God help us,” he muttered.
“God’s long gone.” Liam said.
Behind them, another crash—more infected from below deck, some wearing uniforms, others half-naked and slick with sea slime.
“Shit,” Oliver hissed, backing up toward a cannon.
He shoved a crate in front of him and fired over it. One down. Two. Another tried to leap—he ducked, Liam caught it mid-air and tossed it overboard like it was nothing.
Oliver wheezed. His arms were shaking. His legs ached. Every breath burned.
Liam moved toward him, breathing just as hard. “We can’t hold this much longer.”
“Then let’s give them less ship to climb,” Oliver snapped.
He grabbed a lantern, smashed it on the deck near a leaking barrel of oil.
FWOOSH.
Fire roared up the rail, catching the infected who tried to crawl along it. Screams filled the night.
“Now we’re pirates, awesome. ” Oliver coughed.
They kept swinging, side by side—flesh, bone, fire, and steel.
And somewhere, above the roaring wind and waves, the sails finally caught.
The ship began to pull away from the horde still wading toward them through the shallows.
For a few precious moments, the only sound was the sea.
The sky lightened slightly—only a hint, not enough to be called dawn. The sea was quieter now, though the deck was anything but corpses lay tangled in rigging. Blood smeared the wheel. The sails flapped like lungs gasping for breath.
Liam leaned against the mast, axe lowered, chest heaving. Oliver crouched nearby, tying off a wounded crewmate’s arm, sleeves rolled up to the elbows and soaked with seawater and gore.
Then—someone shouted.
“Bite! He’s bitten! ”
Every head turned.
A young Marine staggered from behind the stack of barrels. His neck was torn—not badly, but enough to see the red glistening.
He stared at the others, wide-eyed. “I didn’t know—he was already dead—he grabbed me—”
A pistol was drawn.
“Stop!” Oliver barked, standing.
The Marine trembled. “Please—please—I don’t feel sick!”
“That’s how it starts!” another yelled.
Liam stepped forward. “We don’t have time to argue.”
“No,” Oliver said. “But we might have time for this.”
He pointed to the bow—where a lone man knelt, white collar darkened with salt and ash. A chaplain , miraculously unbitten, was murmuring last rites over the body of a fallen sailor.
Oliver turned to the others. “It’s not just superstition. Early infection— it can be stayed. The priests keep them… human.”
One of the officers scoffed. “You’d rather gamble on a priest than quarantine the bastard?”
“I’d rather try something than throw a boy overboard who hasn’t even twitched yet,” Oliver snapped.
Liam gave a small nod. “Let the chaplain try.”
The infected Marine was shaking, tears brimming. “Thank you—thank you—God, thank you—”
They helped him to the front of the ship, where the chaplain—an older man with a missing eye and cracked glasses—took the boy by the arm.
He whispered a prayer in Latin. Pressed a rusted cross to the wound.
The air felt heavier, just for a moment. Like something… paused.
The boy stopped trembling.
He knelt. Crossed himself.
Then slowly stood again, eyes clear.
He was still pale. Still bitten. But something had shifted.
Oliver exhaled, hands on his knees. “If that didn’t work, I was out of bullets anyway.”
Liam looked at him. “You believe all that?”
Oliver gave a half-laugh. “No. But belief’s not required for miracles in this hellhole.”
They both looked toward the chaplain, who had already moved on—blessing another injured sailor in silence, the last vestige of holiness on a ship built for damnation.
The ship groaned with every shift of the waves.
Below deck, it was dim. Quiet. Smelled like blood, wood rot, gunpowder, and wet rope.
Most of the Brits and the few surviving French soldiers lay scattered in makeshift bedrolls or curled up in empty crates, finally allowed rest. The chaplain whispered prayers somewhere in the back, voice faint like wind through a cracked window.
A lantern swung lazily overhead, casting long, slow-moving shadows across the beams.
Liam worked near the hull, scraping gore off the floor with the edge of a rusted shovel. A few Marines were with him—quiet, tired, mumbling jokes under their breath as they tossed what was left of the infected into sacks bound for the sea.
“Third one with half a foot,” one muttered. “What is it with zombies and ankles?”
“They bite whatever they can reach,” Liam replied without looking up.
Oliver sat on an overturned crate nearby, legs spread, shirt half-unbuttoned, scalp damp with sweat. He was supposed to be resting—he hadn’t slept in over a day—but his eyes stayed fixed on the dark corners of the hull.
One hand gripped the edge of the crate. White-knuckled.
He glanced up as Liam passed by.
“You’re wasting your talents,” Oliver said, voice low and dry. “You could’ve been a butcher. Or a grave-digger.”
Liam looked up. “Still might.”
He dropped another bloodied cloth into a barrel and kept working.
Oliver shifted, rubbing his palms together slowly. The cut on his arm from earlier ached. Not in the usual way. Not quite pain. Not quite… anything.
“Can’t sleep?” Liam asked.
“Can’t trust myself to,” Oliver muttered.
Liam paused. Wiped his hands on a stained rag. “Still hearing things?”
“No.”
A beat.
“Yes.”
Oliver laughed softly, but it didn’t last. “I keep thinking there’s something behind me. But there never is.”
Liam leaned against a beam, folding his arms.
“You’re shaken,” he said simply.
“I’m a surgeon,” Oliver replied. “We’re always shaken. We’re just too arrogant to admit it.”
One of the Marines called from the other end of the hold. “Oi, Liam—Barrel split. Water’s flooding the grain.”
“Coming,” Liam called back. He gave Oliver one last look. “Try to rest.”
Oliver gave a brittle smile. “You know I won’t.”
Liam nodded. “I know.”
He walked off, boots echoing against the planks.
Oliver leaned back, exhaling through his nose, watching the swinging lantern again. Oliver hadn’t moved an inch from the crate.
The quiet was only broken by the creak of ropes and the occasional thud above deck—someone shifting, someone else coughing. Salt clung to everything. Blood had soaked into the grain of the floor, staining it dark, almost black.
Liam returned a moment later, hands still damp from hauling barrels. He knelt to retie the knot around a cargo stack, quiet and steady as always.
Oliver’s voice came soft, almost absentminded.
“…Despite being British, I’m sorry.”
Liam glanced up.
“For what?”
Oliver didn’t look at him. Just stared toward the small round porthole in the side of the hull—the moonlight catching the side of his jaw.
“All the bloodshed,” he said. “That we’ve done to you Americans. Over land. Over trade. Over nonsense, truth be told.”
He sighed, long and tired.
“It was foolish of our king, if I’ll be honest.”
The silence between them hung like smoke. Oliver kept staring out the window.
“We’re both familiar with bloodshed now, hm?” His voice was bitter, but calm. “But this time… it’s different. These poor, unconsenting souls. Having to witness violence, and rot, and guns to their faces. No uniform. No command. Just… death. And for what?”
He flexed his fingers, eyes narrowing.
“It makes me think,” he muttered.
Liam sat still, arms resting on his knees.
“What about?” he asked quietly.
Oliver hesitated, his voice barely above a whisper.
“…How much blood we have left before there’s none of us left.”
The lantern swung again. Just a little.
Neither of them said anything for a while after that.