Chapter Text
Robert Jordan was dying. He was dying a slow, agonizing death. Though Robert Jordan did not feel pain.
The fall from his grey, strong stallion had crushed his nerve along with his leg. He could feel his muscles constraining around the femur that was slicing his skin. To hell with the fascist horse. To hell with the bridge. I spit on the snow that had stopped falling way too soon. I spit on Pablo, who had to throw away my wires. If it weren’t for the old, stupid, fool of a bastard, Anselmo would still be alive. And Eladio wouldn’t have a bullet in his brain and Fernando and…
Robert Jordan felt wetness on his three-day stubble. Stop with this stupidity, Jordan, it cannot help you now. You are dying. Your leg has been crushed, you couldn’t have gone with her without getting her killed too. She will go and she will survive this war. You have made your peace with that, you fool.
He could feel himself slipping out of consciousness. No, he had to fight. He had to buy time, time for Pilar and the others to escape.
He gripped the stand of his machine gun harder, feeling his nails dig into his skin. Robert Jordan refused to die before Maria was safe, safe in Madrid.
He heard voices down the hill. He heard as the fascist swine made their way up to him. He gripped the stand of his maquina even harder. By god, how he could use Andre’s right now. No matter, he was alone and Robert Jordan will die alone.
Robert Jordan thought of the gun in his hand. He thought about taking it to his temple and to his trigger. And then he saw his fathers coffin.
His father had been a coward. A true, selfish coward. I cannot understand you now, not even in death, thought Robert Jordan. He remembered fathers red head as they took him to Fathers gates. Even then he thought him a fearing man. He promised himself he would not fear life as his father did, and he would not call death to him. He had decided that already. He is fighting. He does not think of death and Anselmo with a rod through his skull.
Mierda, do not lose yourself, Jordan. The fascist swine are coming. He could see their maquinas as they made their way up the hill. His leg ached but he refused to let go of his small handgun. He heard the crunching of the earth and he remembered how it moved for him when Maria was there. She will live a good life and he will be with her because without one there is no other and the earth will move no more. Robert Jordan thought and waited and shot. He shot and shot and shot.
There was no more Robert Jordan. There was a half dead murderer in a pool of holed out fascist. He never thought himself a killer when he’d shoot a man. He preferred not to, but it was a fight for the freedom of Spain. Al diablo con España. Al diablo con la República.
And yet now, when Robert Jordan was lying on his grave, he felt a murderer. Not because he cared for the fascist pigs (he felt no pity for them), but because here he was a dying man bringing death upon another.
It was still, quiet, for a moment. They’d probably heard the shots, more would be here soon. They will be bringing around the tanque pequeño and after that I will not last long. I did what I was supposed to. You’ve blown up the bridge, Jordan, set it up flying into the air. Oh, al diablo con todo.
You have made your peace with death, though you will not go out with grace nor hope, Roberto. Roberto. Roberto. He will never hear her sweet voice utter his name under the damp sheets again. He smiled.
And the earth shook. It was loud, like the biggest whitest star had exploded and took it all with her. The earth shook but it didn’t move. For Robert Jordan she will never move again.
He thought he would see white, or black, or a sickening red…yet Robert Jordan saw green…