Work Text:
March 19th 1917
It was dusk when the fated letter was finally picked up from the porch, handled in roughened, splintered hands. In the warmth of their small shed-like cottage on the outskirts of the small village they had settled in, Maurice lounged atop the somewhat scratchy rug in front of the crackling fire, casting warm light over the content curves of his face.
His body pleasantly ached after a full day of hard labour cutting down trees in the local forest, a dull hum in his muscles, as he gazed into the flames sharply licking the logs in the fireplace, feasting hungrily.
The hearty smell of fresh sawdust and pine sap clung to fabric and warm skin, staining the room, and a few specks of shaved wood stuck to Maurice’s hair and clothes- not that he cared, both would appear tomorrow anyhow. The pleasant silence was filled with the hot crackling of the fire, and the melodious twittering and cooing of birds, nested in the canopy of interwoven trees. The locusts chattered outside: the sound of Spring.
He lay in wait for his beloved, his heart and body open for his embrace, his nerves tuned into every slight whine of a floorboard, the hasty beating of wings, the family of mice scuttling across corners of the room, the snapping of burning wood. He found himself sighing contently, love blooming on his lips, a yearning whisper into the air: Alec.
The familiar pattern of footsteps across the creaking wood made Maurice smile softly. Alec had answered his silent call. He wondered how he would be greeted today. Would it be by leaping atop his relaxed body with a giggle, making winded laughs breeze past Maurice’s lips, as he tried to gain back air, inhaling Alec’s intoxicating scent. Or would Alec try to sneak up on him again, the excited breaths and indisputable gait giving him away before even entering the room, the floorboard situated just outside the room a dead giveaway. Maurice would humor him, pretending he had not heard a sound before grabbing Alec’s ankles and yanking him down into a tangled heap, his addictive guffaws going straight to his heart as he kissed wherever his lips could gain purchase. Or perhaps he would simply curl into Maurice, encasing him in his arms as they talked about small things that happened today: it was their gossiping hour.
He waited with a wistful smile, the squeaking of the tell tale floorboard sounded like music to his ears, he did not turn yet- he knew Alec would come to him. His skin burned for the man, wishing for the hot contact to encase his soul, to be coddled by strong woody arms.
But alas, Alec did not.
He silently sat down next to Maurice’s lounging figure, and, looking over, he saw the glow illuminating Scudder’s concerned expression, his gaze was absorbed by a letter, not sparing a glance in Maurice’s direction.
Something was wrong.
Maurice quickly sat up, leaning closer to see the thick, black impersonal black letters spelling out Scudder’s full name. They never got letters. Maurice hadn’t written to Clive or his family since starting his new life with Alec, and the letters that arrived from the Scudders in Argentina were so scarce they seemed to have not existed at all, inevitably becoming a starter for the fire.
But here was a letter, written in unfamiliar rough handwriting, like someone had scribbled it violently before moving onto another. It was somehow so unassuming, so bland, so unnatural, so careless, and yet malicious all at once, crumpled into one deceptively innocent envelope.
Yet, this letter was not innocent. The letters spelling the dear name Alec were brutal, callous. The sharp stab of the A plunged deep into his gut like a dagger. Words dug themselves into the fibers that up curled slightly around their borders, like a deep ink filled trench, small shreds of the white material waded through the black sea like soldiers.
It almost still looked wet, like the battalion could swim to safety, but alas, the ink was dry, setting like a glue, leaving them to drown in the unforgiving darkness.
It gave an acrid taste, sticking to the roof of Maurice’s mouth.
The letter turned, displaying it’s sharp forked tongue in a sneer, demanding in an oppressive silence to be opened, to be read.
Alec tore it’s stomach open with his bare hands, gutting it with a slight tremor, much akin to a young boys first time after a hunt with his father, removing the torrid entrails: one sheet of lightly peppered paper.
The words shone through the back of the paper like veins; whatever message was enfolded inside the letter was not long.
The rustling of paper assaulted his ears, like the reloading of a gun as the bullet clicks into place.
Both knew what this letter most likely was. They had known, deep in their subconscious, that this would happen one day. But they had refused to talk about it, or even to have the idea pass through their thoughts for more than one second; that would’ve made it real, a betrayal to their happiness.
They watched with bated breath and hollowed stomachs as Alec unfolded the singular sheet, a slight tremor in his hands.
Oh God.
It was that letter. That inevitable, horrible letter. The letter that obliterated lives and splintered families. The letter that meant nothing would be the same again.
The quiet was not comforting. It was harrowing. Every crackle from the fervent fire sounded like the devil’s cackle, relishing their fate with a spiky grin, forked tongue licking the logs raw greedily, taking everything from them. Each of the locusts wiry calls felt like gunshots in his ears: ten soldiers dead in that very moment. The scattered twittering of birds mocked him; time was continuing evermore, towards Alec’s fate, without the decency to stop in this moment, and to let them savour the last remnants of this deceptively happy period.
“It’s finished…” Alec’s mutter, almost to himself, finally broke the deafening silence that had swaddled them like a dark, suffocating blanket.
Words swam together on the page like starving ravenous piranhas, feasting on the small pleasures of his new life. Tearing apart the meagre flesh of his happiness with malicious teeth, sharp as an axe on the chopping block.
He wasn’t sure if his swirling vision was from the low light and flickering fire, or unshed tears.
Beads of sweat strung itself into a pearl necklace around his neck, strangling the air from his lungs.
Alec Scudder… call to arms… present by the 21st March…
In the quiet evening in bed, the grip on the other was tighter than ever, yet never more unstable, crumbling at the frail foundations that had only just learned to stand.
Their axes leant against the wall, intertwined in stiff embrace, low light from the dwindling flames glinting across the sharp edge of silver blade, a sinfully enticing grin.
Maurice couldn’t help but think, tearing his eyes away. It would be so simple, explainable, indisputable; accidents happen all the time in their work. A small slip of the axe…
He bit his lip, hard, anything to stop himself from the tortuous prison of his thoughts.
He wasn’t sure what would be worse: permanently marring his beloved, or sending him off to a tempestuous fate that he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy.
The tears clawed their way out of his throat.