𝑨𝒓𝒎𝒚 𝑫𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒓𝒔

Kate Bush

0:38 ─♡────── 2:25

"𝙵𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚛"

The trenches in France were damp and claustrophobic, their walls lined with mud and desperation. The four men sat together in a rare moment, their bodies pressed close against the cold. Arthur Shelby leaned back, the rough wood of the trench wall digging into his shoulders. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it with steady hands, the glow of the flame briefly illuminating his face.

"Oi, pass it here," John Shelby said, leaning over with a grin. His helmet was tilted at a cocky angle, and though his uniform was filthy, his smile was as easy as ever.

Arthur rolled his eyes but handed the cigarette over. "Get your own, John."

"You're the one who nicked the pack," John retorted, taking a long drag before passing it to Tommy.

Tommy took it without comment, his eyes scanning the horizon over the lip of the trench. Even here, in the fleeting moments of calm, he was always watching. He exhaled a thin stream of smoke before handing the cigarette to Jamie Harding, who was perched beside him.

Jamie accepted it with a small smile, his dark eyes tired but still warm. "If Maeve knew I was sharing smokes with you lot, she'd kill me herself," he said, his voice light but tinged with affection.

John laughed, nudging Jamie's shoulder. "Your sister's a bloody saint. How she puts up with Arthur, I'll never know."

Arthur smirked, though there was a flicker of something softer in his expression. "She's tougher than all of you put together."

"Good thing too," Tommy said, his voice even. "Keeps you in line."

The group fell into an easy silence, the kind born from years of shared chaos. They passed a flask between them, the burn of whiskey a welcome distraction from the cold and the fear that lingered like a shadow. For a moment, they weren't soldiers. They were just men, brothers in every way that mattered.

At dawn, the calm shattered.

The order came just as the sun broke over the horizon, casting a pale light across the battlefield. They were to charge the German line, take the ridge ahead, and hold it at all costs. The officers barked commands, their voices barely audible over the distant rumble of artillery fire.

Arthur, Tommy, John, and Jamie lined up at the edge of the trench. Their breaths came in short, visible puffs in the chilly morning air. Arthur glanced at Jamie, who was adjusting his helmet with shaking hands.

"Stick close," Arthur said, his voice gruff but steady. "You hear me?"

Jamie nodded, his jaw tight. "I hear you."

Tommy stepped closer, his gaze flicking between Arthur and Jamie. "We move together. No one gets left behind."

"Yeah," John added, slapping Jamie's shoulder. "We've got you."

The whistle blew, and the world exploded into chaos.

They scrambled over the edge of the trench, boots sinking into the wet mud as they surged forward. Gunfire tore through the air, the sharp cracks deafening. The ground shook with the force of explosions, dirt and shrapnel raining down around them. Bodies fell, men screaming as they were cut down by machine gun fire.

Arthur stayed close to Jamie, his rifle gripped tightly in his hands. John was just ahead of them, his movements quick and deliberate, while Tommy led the way, his sharp eyes scanning for cover.

"Move!" Tommy shouted, his voice cutting through the noise. "Keep moving!"

They ducked behind a crater, their breaths coming in ragged gasps. Jamie pressed his back against the dirt, his chest heaving as he looked at Arthur. "This is madness," he panted.

Arthur didn't reply. He grabbed Jamie's arm, pulling him forward as they pushed toward the ridge. The German guns roared, cutting down the men around them like wheat in a field.

It happened in an instant.

Jamie was just a step behind Arthur when the shot rang out. Arthur turned at the sound, just in time to see Jamie stumble, his hand clutching his chest. Blood bloomed across his uniform, vivid and shocking against the dull gray of the battlefield.

"Jamie!" Arthur shouted, his voice raw.

Jamie crumpled to the ground, his rifle slipping from his grasp. Arthur was at his side in an instant, his hands pressing desperately against the wound. "Stay with me," he said, his voice shaking. "You're going to be fine."

Jamie's breaths were shallow, his eyes wide with pain and fear. "Arthur..." he rasped, his voice barely audible. "Tell them... I'm sorry."

Arthur shook his head fiercely, tears streaming down his face. "No. You tell them yourself. You hear me? You tell her."

Tommy appeared beside them, his expression grim. He knelt down, his hand on Arthur's shoulder. "We have to move," he said quietly. "Arthur, we have to go."

"I'm not leaving him," Arthur growled, his voice breaking.

"Arthur," Tommy said again, his tone firm but not unkind. "He's gone."

Jamie's hand fell from Arthur's wrist, the light fading from his eyes. Arthur let out a guttural cry, his grief raw and uncontained. John appeared then, his face pale, his usual grin replaced with a look of disbelief and sorrow.

"Jamie," John whispered, his voice cracking. "Fuck."

Arthur refused to let go, his hands still pressed against Jamie's chest as if he could will him back to life. Tommy grabbed him, pulling him to his feet. "We have to move," he said, his voice louder now. "We can't stay here."

Arthur struggled against him, his body trembling with rage and heartbreak. "I promised," he said, his voice barely audible. "I fucking promised."

Tommy's grip tightened. "And you'll carry that. We all will. But we have to go, Arthur."

John grabbed Arthur's other arm, his voice shaking as he spoke. "Come on, mate. We have to go."

They dragged him away, the sounds of battle raging around them. Arthur's eyes stayed fixed on Jamie's lifeless body until it disappeared from view, swallowed by the smoke and the chaos.

When they finally made it back to the trench, Arthur collapsed against the wall, his head in his hands. His body shook with silent sobs, the weight of his grief pressing down on him like the mud around them. Tommy sat beside him, his expression unreadable, while John paced nearby, his fists clenched.

No one spoke. There were no words that could ease the ache, no promises that could make it better. Jamie was gone, and the world felt emptier without him.

-----------------------------------------

The bar was dimly lit, the air thick with the smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke. Maeve moved between tables, her tray balanced on one hand, the other fending off the occasional drunken comment from the regulars. It was late, the kind of late where time seemed to drag, and the only people left were those who had nowhere else to be.

The laughter and clinking glasses blurred into background noise as Maeve worked, her movements mechanical, her mind elsewhere. The war had taken its toll on everyone, and while she kept her head down, it felt like the weight of the world had settled firmly on her shoulders. Her father was getting worse by the day, his coughing fits now a constant reminder of his decline, and Rosie's bright innocence was dimming under the strain of their lives. But Maeve kept going. She had to.

She was wiping down the bar when she saw Polly Gray walk in. Polly was a rare sight this late at night, her usual sharp presence softened by something in her eyes. Maeve straightened, setting the cloth aside as Polly approached.

"Hey," Maeve said, frowning. "What are you doing here?"

Polly didn't answer right away. Instead, she pulled an envelope from her coat, the edges smudged with dirt, the official seal unmistakable. Maeve's stomach dropped. Her hands tightened around the edge of the bar as Polly placed the letter in front of her.

"It's about Jamie," Polly said gently, her voice low.

Maeve stared at the envelope, her chest tightening. The room seemed to tilt slightly, the noise around her fading into a distant hum. She swallowed hard, her fingers trembling as she picked up the letter.

Her name was scrawled on the front in neat, impersonal handwriting. She opened it slowly, the paper inside stiff and cold. Her eyes skimmed the words, her breath catching in her throat as she reached the part that mattered:

"Killed in action, July 4th. Died bravely in service to his country."

The words felt hollow, meaningless. Maeve's hands shook, the letter fluttering slightly in her grip. She read it again, and again, as if the meaning might change, as if she might wake up from this nightmare.

But she didn't.

Polly watched her carefully, her face lined with worry. "Maeve?" she said quietly. "Are you alright?"

Maeve folded the letter neatly and set it on the bar. Her movements were deliberate, her expression unreadable. "I'm fine," she said, her voice steady but distant. "I'll talk to you later, Polly."

Polly's brow furrowed. "Maeve-"

"I'm fine," Maeve repeated, cutting her off. Her green eyes were calm, but there was a hollowness to them that made Polly hesitate. After a long moment, Polly nodded reluctantly and stepped back.

Maeve turned and picked up her tray, slipping back into her routine as if nothing had happened. She moved between tables, her steps measured, her smile forced when customers tried to get her attention. But inside, her world was crumbling.

An hour later, Maeve went to her boss, her tray clutched tightly in her hands. "I need a break," she said, her voice tight.

The man barely looked up, waving her off. "Five minutes."

Maeve nodded and made her way to the small bathroom in the back. It was dingy, the tiles cracked, the fluorescent light flickering overhead. She locked the door behind her and stood in the center of the room, staring at her reflection in the streaked mirror.

Her breath came in shallow bursts, her chest tightening until it felt like she couldn't breathe. The weight of Jamie's death pressed down on her, crushing her resolve. Slowly, she sank to her knees, her hands clutching the sides of the sink as she bent forward.

And then, the sobs came.

They ripped through her, raw and uncontrollable, the kind of grief that left no room for dignity. Maeve's hands pressed against her face as tears poured down her cheeks, her body trembling with the force of it. She thought of Jamie's laugh, the way he used to tease her, the way he'd promised Rosie he'd come back.

She thought of her father, sick and frail, waiting for a son who would never walk through the door again. She thought of Rosie, still so young, who had already lost so much. And she thought of herself, alone in a way she had never been before.

Her sobs quieted after a time, replaced by shallow, shaky breaths. Maeve leaned back against the cold tile floor, staring up at the flickering light. Her tears blurred her vision, but she didn't wipe them away.

"Please," she whispered, her voice cracking. She talked to God, to whom she didn't talk for years-specifically since her mother died. "Please help me."

Her hands clasped together tightly, her fingers trembling. She prayed-not with words, but with the desperate, silent plea of someone who had nothing else to hold onto. Her lips moved soundlessly as she stared up, her tears falling freely.

After what felt like an eternity, Maeve stood. She splashed cold water on her face, smoothing her hair back and taking a deep breath. When she stepped out of the bathroom, her face was calm, her expression blank. She picked up her tray and went back to work. Because she had to. Because Jamie was gone, and her father was sick, and Rosie still needed her. Because that was all she could do.