Where Ravens Fly, Chapter 1
Jul. 28th, 2011 06:49 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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tr_ficTitle: Where Ravens Fly, Chapter One
Characters (this part only): Steven Gerrard, Jonny Evans, Gary Neville
Rating: PG-13 now, higher later
Summary: A country divided, friends and family find themselves on opposite sides of a great divide. Can bridges be built even in the middle of a war?
Words: this part: 1,474 ; total: 1,474
Warnings overall in the whole story: violence, abuse, descriptions of war, character death, mistreatment of people, swearing In this part: character death, violence
A/N: This is an AU I’m starting (I know D:) but I am and it’s a historical one, but I won’t say what time period because that will become very obvious once you read just a little bit. Let’s just say it’s in the 1800’s and they aren’t British. ;-) And if you think about it for a minute by reading the summary you can get it. Also, if you know me, you can guess what time period from those clues I just left 0:-) Don't let the banner or subject matter fool you, just give me some time. I promise there will be slash, mentioned in the next chapter for sure.
“Fellow-citizens, we cannot escape history.”
There was a stream down beyond the overhang from where he was hidden behind some rocks. The faint sound of canon and musket fire was dulled here, but it seemed to ring still in his ears. He wondered for a moment if that sound would ever truly disappear completely. He guessed that it would not, or he would die before he could ever find out what the correct answer would be.
His breaths were short, as quiet as he could get them despite the fact he was panting breathlessly. He had left the field of battle only briefly to seek the shelter of the trees away from the oncoming Union forces but some had followed him. He wasn’t sure how many, but he knew that several of the Yankees were hiding in the trees, just as he was. He closed his eyes for a moment, allowing his ears, ringing as they may be, to try and find the enemy hidden under the canopy of green just as he was. He heard nothing except the dulled canon from behind him.
It was moments like this that he wished, oh how he wished, he was still a boy tucked back in the safety of the Blue Ridge and there were no such things as wars, politics, or Yankees. There were no strict disciplinary rules that had to be followed, no regulations. No Generals, no commanders. Only mountains, endless hills of mountains, trees and birds and Mama’s good cooking. It’d been so long since he’d had a good meal, he reflected when his stomach gave a reminding growl. He sighed. Now was not the time.
He opened his eyes and looked around, but nothing changed. The sun still flickered through the leaves above and there was still a war going on behind the line of trees. There were two blue bellies around that needed to be taken care of, he reminded and turned quietly to peer behind the tree he leaned on.
At first he saw nothing that wasn’t supposed to be there, but then he took another look longer and saw a shadow that wasn’t quite right. He was quiet and careful as he snuck around the tree. He was afraid to even breath, scared that if he inhaled too loudly he would be spotted and shot on sight.
As he came around, he only saw one man—barely a man, more like a teenager—hiding behind a tree, just as he’d done a moment before. Carefully, he removed the bayonet’s blade from the top of his musket and moved closer. He was quiet, always so quiet, and snuck up quickly behind the other man. He was about to stab him when a loud crack echoed through the forest. This time he had not imagined it, a fact confirmed by the sudden strange feeling of pain that seemed to be growing ever larger near his heart.
The man he was going to stab jumped, turning quickly, and his eyes widened as he paled. He had realized that he had almost been about to meet his maker.
They both looked down at his shirt, which was quickly turning scarlet instead of the faded gray it had been, and the one injured swallowed stiffly before he shifted backwards against a tree. He leaned upon it heavily while the Yankee watched his breathing become more and more labored. The Confederate didn’t even bother to look around to see who had shot him; that wasn’t so important now, he guessed. It wouldn’t matter who had done it, only that they had.
“I—I could help, I could help you if you wanted?” The boy stammered after a moment longer held in shock.
The Confederate released a breath of air as he leaned even heavier against the tree. He would’ve laughed, if he’d had the strength.
“Won’t do no good. I’ll be dead before you could leave them trees yonder.” He replied noncommittally, as if he were talking about the fact the sun was shining. He sagged a little as the effort it took to stand became too much.
The boy seemed unsure of what to do, or what to say as he stood, watching. He was still pale, but the Confederate didn’t seem to mind. After all, he had killed many men in his time. He was about due to be one more for somebody else.
“Is there anything I can do?” The boy asked, quietly, nervously. Again, the Confederate found himself amused but unable to even laugh about it.
He slid down the tree and collapsed onto the ground, bleeding even more freely now. His breathing became shorter and he let his blue eyes look over to the boy. He was still pale and so incredibly young. He shouldn’t have ever seen a man die, never mind have tried to be killed by the same one.
However, the question did have purpose. He tried to move his hand toward the pocket of his jacket but he couldn’t lift his hand high enough. He swallowed hard and tried again; the boy moved closer after a moment’s hesitation and knelt beside him.
“In my,” the Confederate swallowed and tried again, “in my pocket. Mail it.”
The boy nodded and for a brief moment he wondered if he would follow that request. He doubted it highly, but he had to believe for a moment that the letter he had written at the start of this damn War for a moment such as this, would get back home. He had to believe that.
He coughed a little, the action causing him a great amount of pain and he grimaced. The boy in blue watched him, wary look in his eyes, but he simply shook his head a little when the boy offered to make him more comfortable.
“Do one thing more for me,” he whispered, strength fading.
“Yes?” The boy asked, warily.
With a sad, half-smile on his face, the Confederate looked directly into the eyes of his enemy and whispered, “Survive.”
By the time the boy had processed the word, the Confederate’s smile had faded and his eyes had closed. A moment later, Steven George Gerrard expired from his life and entered the hereafter.
The boy swallowed hard and shifted the man’s body into what he felt was a more comfortable position. He folded the man’s hands in his lap and he swallowed nervously as he stood and looked down at the man that had tried to kill him. His hands shook as he looked down at the letter he held. It was folded, rumpled as if it had been held many times.
“Jonny?” A voice called through the trees. “You’re not hurt are you?”
His voice was barely anything at all as he called back. “No.”
“The Reb dead?”
Jonny swallowed as he looked back down at the motionless body. “Yeah.”
“Good. Let’s get out of here, before more of ‘em show up.”
Jonny watched as his commanding officer, Gary Neville, came into view from the trees. He swallowed nervously as he nodded and moved away from the Confederate’s body.
“What’s that?” Neville nodded towards Jonny’s hands and he looked down.
“Some letter he wrote.” He shrugged. “He wanted me to mail it for him.”
Gary’s eyebrow rose and Jonny knew that he would have to laugh it off, otherwise the man would probably rip it from his fingers and set fire to it at the first sign of a flame.
“But I’ll just burn it.” Jonny forced a laugh and hoped it sounded real. “Damn Southerners, think that we are their postmen.”
Gary gave him another look before a slight sneer crossed his face. “Read it first, then burn it.”
Jonny nodded and pocketed the letter. “But later. For now, we should get out of here, right?”
Gary nodded, sneer disappearing as the severity of the situation returned. “Let’s get back to our side of the line. It’s been a bad day for us. Grant’s probably going to withdraw.”
“Withdraw?” Jonny asked, surprised. He followed Gary’s back through the trees.
“Lee’s been good today. Too good. We’ve suffered for it. Got no choice but to withdraw for now.” Gary replied quietly, listening for any sound of the enemy.
Jonny swallowed and wondered which of his friends had made it through the battle, if any of them had. He cringed inwardly and shook his head. He had to hope that several of them had survived, if not all of them. However, despite his hopes, realism had taught him never to expect the best outcome. Especially not if Gary’s words were true and that it had been a bad day for the Army of the Potomac. He sighed quietly.
Only would the end of the battle would he know just how many friends he would have to learn to live without. Again.
Characters (this part only): Steven Gerrard, Jonny Evans, Gary Neville
Rating: PG-13 now, higher later
Summary: A country divided, friends and family find themselves on opposite sides of a great divide. Can bridges be built even in the middle of a war?
Words: this part: 1,474 ; total: 1,474
Warnings overall in the whole story: violence, abuse, descriptions of war, character death, mistreatment of people, swearing In this part: character death, violence
A/N: This is an AU I’m starting (I know D:) but I am and it’s a historical one, but I won’t say what time period because that will become very obvious once you read just a little bit. Let’s just say it’s in the 1800’s and they aren’t British. ;-) And if you think about it for a minute by reading the summary you can get it. Also, if you know me, you can guess what time period from those clues I just left 0:-) Don't let the banner or subject matter fool you, just give me some time. I promise there will be slash, mentioned in the next chapter for sure.
“Fellow-citizens, we cannot escape history.”
There was a stream down beyond the overhang from where he was hidden behind some rocks. The faint sound of canon and musket fire was dulled here, but it seemed to ring still in his ears. He wondered for a moment if that sound would ever truly disappear completely. He guessed that it would not, or he would die before he could ever find out what the correct answer would be.
His breaths were short, as quiet as he could get them despite the fact he was panting breathlessly. He had left the field of battle only briefly to seek the shelter of the trees away from the oncoming Union forces but some had followed him. He wasn’t sure how many, but he knew that several of the Yankees were hiding in the trees, just as he was. He closed his eyes for a moment, allowing his ears, ringing as they may be, to try and find the enemy hidden under the canopy of green just as he was. He heard nothing except the dulled canon from behind him.
It was moments like this that he wished, oh how he wished, he was still a boy tucked back in the safety of the Blue Ridge and there were no such things as wars, politics, or Yankees. There were no strict disciplinary rules that had to be followed, no regulations. No Generals, no commanders. Only mountains, endless hills of mountains, trees and birds and Mama’s good cooking. It’d been so long since he’d had a good meal, he reflected when his stomach gave a reminding growl. He sighed. Now was not the time.
He opened his eyes and looked around, but nothing changed. The sun still flickered through the leaves above and there was still a war going on behind the line of trees. There were two blue bellies around that needed to be taken care of, he reminded and turned quietly to peer behind the tree he leaned on.
At first he saw nothing that wasn’t supposed to be there, but then he took another look longer and saw a shadow that wasn’t quite right. He was quiet and careful as he snuck around the tree. He was afraid to even breath, scared that if he inhaled too loudly he would be spotted and shot on sight.
As he came around, he only saw one man—barely a man, more like a teenager—hiding behind a tree, just as he’d done a moment before. Carefully, he removed the bayonet’s blade from the top of his musket and moved closer. He was quiet, always so quiet, and snuck up quickly behind the other man. He was about to stab him when a loud crack echoed through the forest. This time he had not imagined it, a fact confirmed by the sudden strange feeling of pain that seemed to be growing ever larger near his heart.
The man he was going to stab jumped, turning quickly, and his eyes widened as he paled. He had realized that he had almost been about to meet his maker.
They both looked down at his shirt, which was quickly turning scarlet instead of the faded gray it had been, and the one injured swallowed stiffly before he shifted backwards against a tree. He leaned upon it heavily while the Yankee watched his breathing become more and more labored. The Confederate didn’t even bother to look around to see who had shot him; that wasn’t so important now, he guessed. It wouldn’t matter who had done it, only that they had.
“I—I could help, I could help you if you wanted?” The boy stammered after a moment longer held in shock.
The Confederate released a breath of air as he leaned even heavier against the tree. He would’ve laughed, if he’d had the strength.
“Won’t do no good. I’ll be dead before you could leave them trees yonder.” He replied noncommittally, as if he were talking about the fact the sun was shining. He sagged a little as the effort it took to stand became too much.
The boy seemed unsure of what to do, or what to say as he stood, watching. He was still pale, but the Confederate didn’t seem to mind. After all, he had killed many men in his time. He was about due to be one more for somebody else.
“Is there anything I can do?” The boy asked, quietly, nervously. Again, the Confederate found himself amused but unable to even laugh about it.
He slid down the tree and collapsed onto the ground, bleeding even more freely now. His breathing became shorter and he let his blue eyes look over to the boy. He was still pale and so incredibly young. He shouldn’t have ever seen a man die, never mind have tried to be killed by the same one.
However, the question did have purpose. He tried to move his hand toward the pocket of his jacket but he couldn’t lift his hand high enough. He swallowed hard and tried again; the boy moved closer after a moment’s hesitation and knelt beside him.
“In my,” the Confederate swallowed and tried again, “in my pocket. Mail it.”
The boy nodded and for a brief moment he wondered if he would follow that request. He doubted it highly, but he had to believe for a moment that the letter he had written at the start of this damn War for a moment such as this, would get back home. He had to believe that.
He coughed a little, the action causing him a great amount of pain and he grimaced. The boy in blue watched him, wary look in his eyes, but he simply shook his head a little when the boy offered to make him more comfortable.
“Do one thing more for me,” he whispered, strength fading.
“Yes?” The boy asked, warily.
With a sad, half-smile on his face, the Confederate looked directly into the eyes of his enemy and whispered, “Survive.”
By the time the boy had processed the word, the Confederate’s smile had faded and his eyes had closed. A moment later, Steven George Gerrard expired from his life and entered the hereafter.
The boy swallowed hard and shifted the man’s body into what he felt was a more comfortable position. He folded the man’s hands in his lap and he swallowed nervously as he stood and looked down at the man that had tried to kill him. His hands shook as he looked down at the letter he held. It was folded, rumpled as if it had been held many times.
“Jonny?” A voice called through the trees. “You’re not hurt are you?”
His voice was barely anything at all as he called back. “No.”
“The Reb dead?”
Jonny swallowed as he looked back down at the motionless body. “Yeah.”
“Good. Let’s get out of here, before more of ‘em show up.”
Jonny watched as his commanding officer, Gary Neville, came into view from the trees. He swallowed nervously as he nodded and moved away from the Confederate’s body.
“What’s that?” Neville nodded towards Jonny’s hands and he looked down.
“Some letter he wrote.” He shrugged. “He wanted me to mail it for him.”
Gary’s eyebrow rose and Jonny knew that he would have to laugh it off, otherwise the man would probably rip it from his fingers and set fire to it at the first sign of a flame.
“But I’ll just burn it.” Jonny forced a laugh and hoped it sounded real. “Damn Southerners, think that we are their postmen.”
Gary gave him another look before a slight sneer crossed his face. “Read it first, then burn it.”
Jonny nodded and pocketed the letter. “But later. For now, we should get out of here, right?”
Gary nodded, sneer disappearing as the severity of the situation returned. “Let’s get back to our side of the line. It’s been a bad day for us. Grant’s probably going to withdraw.”
“Withdraw?” Jonny asked, surprised. He followed Gary’s back through the trees.
“Lee’s been good today. Too good. We’ve suffered for it. Got no choice but to withdraw for now.” Gary replied quietly, listening for any sound of the enemy.
Jonny swallowed and wondered which of his friends had made it through the battle, if any of them had. He cringed inwardly and shook his head. He had to hope that several of them had survived, if not all of them. However, despite his hopes, realism had taught him never to expect the best outcome. Especially not if Gary’s words were true and that it had been a bad day for the Army of the Potomac. He sighed quietly.
Only would the end of the battle would he know just how many friends he would have to learn to live without. Again.
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