manicrouge

[manicrouge]

part of me really wants to think Simon snacks on ice cubes in his apartment. stands in front of his freezer at, like, 2am popping ice cubes into his mouth

[manicrouge]

I AM MERELY MAN (CH. 4)

CHAPTER FOUR: THE QUESTION OF FAITH

[SIMON RILEY X F!READER] - MASTERLIST - IAMM MASTERLIST - PLAYLIST

[ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴛʜᴇ ᴋɪɴᴅ ᴏᴡɴᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ᴀɴ ɪɴɴ ᴘʀᴏᴠɪᴅᴇꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪᴛʜ ꜱʜᴇʟᴛᴇʀ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ɴɪɢʜᴛ.

[ᴄᴡ]: ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛ ɪɴᴊᴜʀʏ, ᴅɪʀᴇᴄᴛ ʀᴇꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ʙɪʙʟᴇ, Qᴜᴇꜱᴛɪᴏɴɪɴɢ ꜰᴀɪᴛʜ ɪɴ ɢᴏᴅ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ɪʟʟᴜꜱɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴇxᴜᴀʟ ᴀꜱꜱᴀᴜʟᴛ

THE LAST TIME you saw your grandmother, you were still in your teenage years.

Your mother might have been pregnant with Hattie, although, you weren’t sure of that. You had met her in a cafe, the one your she had been attending since she was a child. It had been a joke between the pair of you that she would most-likely end up outliving the owners — a young married couple who served both a ceramic pot of tea and some pastries.

The plates they were painted with small pink flowers, the outer rims lined with gold paint. In spite of the slightly lavish location as the cafe was infamous for being quite expensive, your grandmother was anything but as she opened her mouth and indulged like a savage animal on her croissant. Smacking her lips together, she stained her tongue with her ruby-red lipstick in an attempt consume every last one of the flakes of pastry around her mouth.

It was only when you stepped in, pressing your fingertips against her wrinkled flesh, wiping away the mess she had made of herself that she relented.

She thanked you, slurring her words as her mouth was still full of half-chewed pastry, washing her food down with a loud slurp of tea. Her lipstick marked the edge of her teacup and, when she had noticed a passerby walking around the outside of the cafe staring at her, she asked him, very simply, if he wished to kiss her as he was so blatantly admiring her.

The man blushed as he scurried away from her, head turned down at his leather dress shoes. The mind brought her onto a different conversation, almost a reminder of what she had been intending on telling you since the pair of you had sat down.

She told you about how she wished to see you with a man who treated you right, stating that, if she were to find out you settled for a boy, why, she would be furious!

You laughed at her words, your face aching from smiling.

It was a constant with her — the aching in your face, as she seemed to be addicted to hearing the sound of your laughter and seeing joy on your expression.

The old woman went on to tell you how furious she was when her daughter — your mother — had settled for someone like your father. Truth be told, when she had announced their engagement, she had wept harder than she had at her own mother’s funeral.

‘She was a bitch, anyway, ma petite chou,’ she had said upon seeing the horror on your face. 

She insisted on one thing before you left to the countryside: she would see you again, no matter what.

And, if she were to perish beforehand, why, her ghost would make itself right at home right with you. The thought, when you were sixteen had terrified you, however, now being a twenty-three year old, wandering through the countryside with four British soldiers and your orphaned little sister, the presence of your grandmother (ghostly or not) would have been a definite comfort.

It had been twelve hours or so since your parents and the family dog had been murdered.

At least, you thought it had been as the moon, which had been in the middle of the sky had now been replaced by the sun.

Nature seemed to feel the ache in your chest for, as soon as the day had broken through the night-sky, it had began to rain. Your cotton frock, the one you had been stripping out of the night prior was soaked, appearing grey as opposed to white. Simon, the silent fellow, had offered you his coat a while ago but you refused it. A part of you regretted doing so as your teeth chattered and the fabric of your dress stuck to your skin.

You walked behind the men, looking at your sister who was in the arms of who you had since learned was the groups Captain with MacTavish’s — as they called him — jacket wrapped securely around her. She had been awake for most of the night and, even when you had stopped for a brief rest, she refused to sleep. 

Eventually, her body gave in as her eyes drooped lower and lower until they closed. Even in her sleep, she kept a vice-grip on the toy Price had given her, thumb in her mouth like she was a baby. Her nose was red raw, eyelashes clotted together, still slightly wet from all the weeping she had done.

Your attention had been so fixated on your sister that you hadn’t noticed Simon’s presence until you caught sight of him holding his coat out to you yet again. Whatever he said to you, you knew it had to do with your chattering teeth and, without argument, you took it out of his hands, wrapping it around yourself. 

‘Merci,’ you said. 

He nodded, remaining by your side like a loyal mutt. 

Out of all the men in the squad, you realised that he was the one who watched you the most.

Just as you were with him, he seemed almost fascinated by you. You smiled slightly at the thought, all for your face to throb. A brutal reminder that, the perpetrator of the crime was no more. Life had changed so much so quickly and you thanked your father silently for not executing the four soldiers for, had it not been for them, you and your sister would have been in a similar situation to theirs, or worse.

You couldn’t stomach the thought of what could have happened to the pair of you; you had heard stories the few times you had went into the nearby town to run errands with your father, rumours of just how brutal the Nazi’s were, especially when it came to women. 

You shivered again. 

Initially, before it had started to rain, they had been following a map with the intent of making it to Reims before sundown. The map, however, was discarded, tucked away in the pockets of one of the men as the rain threatened to turn the flimsy piece of paper in two. Your feet were aching at this stage, the flat pumps you had managed to slip on in your escape hardly enough to fare well with the calamitous terrain.

It’d be a miracle if you even managed to make it to Reims, let alone Amiens as you had planned to. 

‘How do you know where we’re going?’ you asked, directing you question to the man in front of you.

He took a couple of seconds to process what you had said to him. 

‘I fought in the First World War,’ he answered, ‘was only young —  a baby — when I was in that war. I was stationed in France, the path we’re on right now is where the trenches were.’

‘How old were you?’ 

‘16, maybe 17,’ he said, ‘I just enlisted too — wanted to be like my father.’ 

‘And you learned French during the war?’ 

‘Oui,’ he said with a careful nod, not wanting to wake the sleeping child in his arms. 

‘How come Simon doesn’t know French?’ 

Price sucked in a breath. ‘He has a… tough time learning things sometimes. He’s not book smart. Put him in an active warzone, he's in his element, put him in a classroom, he'd be helpless. ’ 

The man in question was looking between the pair of you. 

‘I see.’ 

The conversation died after your enquiry and, when you looked back at the man walking along side you, he was looking at you again.

You expected to see fury in his eyes as you had spoken about him so blatantly without involving him in the conversation. In fact, you were sure that your face was bright red, even after you and Price had stopped.

You were surprised by the fact that he chose to remain beside you, although, you weren’t unwelcome to his presence either.

No, the pair of you settled, orbiting between one another an inexplicable feeling of peace despite the tragedy you had faced the night prior. 

The freedom you now had came with a severe price, being able to explore the countryside without the prying eyes of your father, while a delight, was also a stark reminder of what you had lost.

It could have been called overbearing and tiresome, the experience of being prisoner in your own home all because your heart bled for the ‘wrong people’, and your parents were much too prepared to address your kindness as a fatal flaw, whilst still worshipping figures who were described as ‘omnibenevolent’.

In a strange way, their protection worked to demonise the love you kept in your heart.

Also working to make you think that you were born with a sickness all because you did not want good people to suffer. Maybe it was a flaw, you’d considered it a lot in all the time you had spent trapped inside the house. 

Their reason did not quite connect with you, however. 

You all walked until you caught sight of civilisation once more, a small village with stone walls and a small community of locals. The switch from the grass to pavement was welcome as you finally felt steady on your feet for the first time in what felt like forever. You hobbled alongside the booted men, you sisters hand in yours as she walked beside you, having woken up sometime ago.

The jacket she was wearing reacher her ankles, sleeves bunched up as she held onto her stuffed rabbit. The cotton nightdress she had worn to bed that night was stained green at the bottom, her shoes, similar to yours, ruined by the walking she herself had done. She did, however, seem steadier on her feet in comparison to you. One step in particular caused you to hiss and, when you did, Simon’s eyes were immediately on you. He caught the attention of his Captain, and Price spoke for him. ‘Simon asked if you’re okay.’ 

‘Oui, I’m fine — my shoes are just rubbing me,’ you sheepishly confessed. 

Price relayed what you had said to Simon who stops in his tracks immediately, removing his rucksack. He says something to Price which causes the three men to stop in their tracks.

Without saying anything else, Simon moved his bag so he was wearing it across the front of his body and, with his hands, he motioned for you to approach him. At first, you offered him a confused look, waiting for confirmation of what exactly he wanted from you. 

Price pitched in with an explanation. ‘He said he’ll carry you.’ 

Promptly, you shook your head declaring, ‘I’m fine!’ 

‘He’s not going to take no for an answer — c’mere, ma petit,’ he said, holding his hand out to your sister.

Hattie glanced at you. 

‘Go on,’ you said, having a feeling Simon would have swept you off your feet had you tried to stand your ground.

Her hand slipped out of yours and she took hold of Price’s.

Approaching Simon, he crouched down, holding his hands out behind him. You placed your hands against his shoulders, his taking hold of the bottom of your thighs. You couldn’t help the squeal that escaped your lips when you were hoisted up onto his back. With your legs wrapped around his waist, he looked at you as if to check you were okay and, when you nodded your head, he continued on with his journey.

The other men stood still momentarily, allowing him to get ahead of them as they took in the sight of the pair of you. The sight from his height was quite breathtaking and you took in every single thing, the sight of the sun slowly setting between two green peeks, the beams of its arms reaching out to you, gently brushing against your face.

The heat was feverish, chasing away the coldness you had suffered from the rain and felt almost… loving. Akin to the embrace of a parental figure determined to reduce whatever sadness you had to cinders. Only, this time, the embrace reached down from the heavens, all to hold you one last time. 

It was that that caused your eyes to water for, without the pain of each step taking you attention away from the truth of what had happened, it finally hit you.

And what a damning, unforgiving blow it was — the realisation that they were truly gone.

So much seemed wrong with the world with the absence of them and it had only been a day. Would it worsen with each passing day, or maybe even every passing second? Could you outrun it, or would you be forced to relive the same grief what had your throat growing tighter and tight by the second? 

None of you had spoken that night. 

Not one word shared after your mother had requested Hattie join her and your father for dinner. You had heard the voice of your mother through the thin walls of the house reading Hattie the same bedtime story she had read to you when you had been a child.

You'd sat and listened to her, mouthing the words of the story. A tale of love and light in the times of despair. She’d taken it from the Bible, the story of Job: the man who lost everything and more and, still, he kept his faith in God.

She’d picked a good story, you thought, concerning the times and how you were feeling right in that moment, as they were stripped away from you without having much of a say. Yet, you would be a fraud if you were to stay you still entirely had faith in the God that had been so willing to take them away from you.

Not only you, but your sister too. What had she done wrong in her short life to warrant such cruelty? Did she even need to be tested to prove she was loyal in the first place? As far as you were concerned, she was born without sin so why was she being forced to suffer so?

You knew not the plan of the Lord, and you supposed you were in no position to question Him and why He was doing the things He was. That didn’t mean you weren't going to think it, so long as no one else heard it, you were quite sure you wouldn’t be destined to an eternity to burning. 

You were, however, destined to an eternity of knowing that, during his last hours on the Earth, your father hated you.

He hated you enough to strike you across the cheek for doing something you had thought to be the correct thing, and you were forever destined to remain tormented at the prospect of him being truthful in his exchange with you.

If you had the opportunity to redo the entire day, a part of you dreamt of leaving the soldiers who were helping you and your sister to safety to starve all for the sake of having some sort of feigned comfort. But, you saw it in his face and you heard it in his voice: he’d been holding onto those words for a long time. Longer than he had cared to let onto, the action itself was hardly a crime. People were hungry, and like the Lord he worshipped, you fed them, replenished them with bread and wine. 

The blood and body of Christ.

As a result, Simon had the strength to carry you on his back, and all of them had had the strength to carry your sister as she slept in their arms. Would he curse you knowing that your action had brought you salvation in the form of selfless soldiers? Or would he still detest you and everything you’d done in your life?

It was impossible to say and, unfortunately, you would never discover the answer. 

Beyond the stone walls of the small village was an inn. It was quaint, small, and when the own, who was a plump elderly woman caught sight of the men’s uniforms, she rushed out into the street, waving about a white cloth.

They stopped in their tracks and, without waiting for an answer from them, she took hold of Johnny’s hand, dragging him towards the entrance of the inn, mumbling to them, ‘come, come!’ He did as he was told — you all did — granted, you were bound to follow wherever Simon went.

You climbed down off his shoulders before entering the inn, uttering ‘merci’ to Simon. He followed closely behind you. Your sister kept hold of Price’s hand, glancing over her shoulder to make sure you were still there.

To assure her, you placed your hand atop her head and ruffled her hair. 

‘You must be starved!’ exclaimed the woman, ‘you’re headed to Dunkirk, oui?’ 

Price nodded his head. ‘How do you know?’ 

‘It’s was broadcasted over the radio, M’sieur! But you are still so far away — two days walk at the very least. Please, stay here and rest, even if it’s only a couple of hours; you need your strength.’ 

Her offer was gracious and she held Price’s free hand tightly. ‘If you’re sure it won’t be too much trouble, mademoiselle.’ 

She shook her head instantly, ‘not at all — you’re fighting for my country, for my freedom. There is a room upstairs, number two, please go and get settled, I will call you when supper is ready.’ 

Not wanting to insult the woman and her generous offer, you all climbed the stairs in a single file line due to the space being quite cramped in spite of it being somewhere where many people could supposedly stay at once.

Garrick opened the door to the bedroom first.

It was small, but spacious enough for all of you to enter. Granted, you did feel slightly cramped. You and your sister sat on the double bed in the centre of the room, Price took a seat on a wooden rocking chair in the corner, and the others found a space on the floor to sit.

Hattie fell asleep almost immediately, her arm across your waist, nose digging into your forearm. The rabbit plushie she had was pressed between the pair of you, tucked slightly under her arm, nestled in the crevice of her armpit.

Your head rested atop of hers and you closed your eyes too. Your feet throbbed, having developed a heart beat of their own, the dull aching in your cheek causing you to lift your head, moving so you were rest against one of the wooden beams of the headboard as opposed to having you cheek pressed against her head. 

Everyone, having been exhausted from their trek, slept soundly. 

--

You awoke to the sound of something shifting.

It was quiet. Expertly so.

You lifted your head to catch the sight of the door to the room closing with a gentle click. Hattie was still very much glued to your side as, when you peered down, the little girls face was nestled in the side of your neck, her hot breath fanning against your skin.

You blinked slowly, taking a moment to pull yourself from the brief sleep you’d had. Sitting up, you took hold of the child lying beside you, moving her so she was lying on a pillow as opposed to yourself, tensing at the sound of a loud snore which tore through the chest of the Captain. It was akin to the ferocious growling of an old motor and, when you turned to look at him, you found him sitting upright against the rocking chair, arms crossed over himself. His head was tilted towards, stomach raising and falling with each breath he took.

MacTavish and Garrick were situated on the other side of the room, having opted to use each other as a pillow as Garrick laid he head atop of Johnny’s, the pair of them sitting with their backs against the wall.

Simon, however, was nowhere to be found.

With a cautious shift, your breath hitched in your throat as you moved out of the bed, tensing with each creak and shift of the bed frame.

Leaning over, you peeled your pumps off, observing the damage the walk had done to your feet. There were quite a few blisters on the soles of your feet, alongside on the back of your heel, where the edge of the shoe had been digging into your skin, leaving an angry red mark in its wake.

Your first steps up and out of the bed were staggered, leaving you huffing and puffing, arms out in front of you in an effort to keep yourself from stumbling onto the sleeping Captain on the ground. 

Continuing on your mission, you only dared to take your first full breath once you had escaped the confines of the room, knowing full-well that Hattie would be safe with the three, even though they were sleeping.

And thus, you embarked on mission to find the masked man who had disappeared. Your mission took you downstairs, in the lobby of the inn, where you found an elderly man sitting behind the desk, newspaper in his hand as he was assisted by the candle light as the night was slowly creeping in. Upon hearing the creaking of the last step on the stairs, he raised his head from his paper, looking at you. ‘Is everything okay, Mademoiselle?’ 

Your hand gripped the bannister and you slowly nodded your head, looking around the lobby. ‘You’re looking for the man, oui?’ 

‘Oui,’ you answered, nodding. 

‘He’s through there, sitting out in the garden,’ explained the man, pointing towards a closed door, ‘supper will be ready soon.’ 

‘Merci,’ you said with a smile. 

You left the man to his reading as you exited the inn, stepping out into the garden.

The land was not quite enveloped by darkness as of yet and you estimated it would roughly be an hour or so before nighttime had officially settled. In place of the nights sky was a beautiful array of colour — pinks, blues, oranges, yellows, even the slightest hint of purple. And, amongst all the colour, like jewels, shone stars, their full brightness washed out due to the sheer brightness of the sun who intended on making her final minutes count.

The garden of the inn was quaint, a path lined with gravel, twisting and curling through the grass, ending at a wooden gate. There were a few trees, small in size, and a wooden bench tucked beneath the only weeping willow in the corner of the garden. Its branches hung limply, obscuring the man who had taken a seat there.

In his lap, you spied a book. As though he sensed you looking at him, he closed it, lifting his head. His eyes smiled when they caught yours. You took that as an invitation, stepping down off the stone steps, holding the wall to steady yourself as you treaded across the path as opposed to the path, knowing your feet would be agony if you were to do so. Ducking beneath the branches of the willow, he shifted to make space for you on the bench and you took a seat beside him. The journal on his lap remained closed, and you placed your hands against your legs, smoothing out the wrinkled white skirt of your dress. 

Neither of you spoke for a while until you came to the realisation that you had not exactly introduced yourself to him. And, in spite of the barrier between the pair of you, you tapped his forearm. He turned to look at you and, similar to what you had done the day prior, outside of the barn, you pointed at yourself, ‘je m’appelle.’ It left your mouth stiffly leaving you to realise just how long it had been since you had had the chance of introducing yourself to a stranger. You told him your name, following it up sweetly with, ‘it’s nice to meet you.’ 

He looked at you, it taking a short moment to register what you had said to him. ‘Je m’appelle Simon.’ 

You already knew his name, having heard in passing, yet, the intimacy of the act of introduction left your heart thudding in your chest. You smiled as he went on to say clumsily, ‘o- on est les amis… oui?’ It was sickeningly endearingly, so much so that, he question — asking if the pair of you were friends or not — had you teary eyed. You nodded eagerly, unsure as to where the sudden emotions had appeared from. He noticed too, when a tear rolled down your cheek, lifting his calloused hand to wipe it away. Despite the roughness of his hands, he was terribly gentle as he chased the water away, saying, ‘I’m sorry,’ this time in English. 

You understood him, a laugh escaping your lips. ‘Je suis stupide.’

‘No,’ he said.

When he withdrew his hand, you settled against him, your head resting against his shoulder, craving some form of temporary comfort. It worked well, unfortunately being unable to chase away the pit in your chest.

You knew he wouldn’t understand a word you said to him, but, captured by the sight of the heavens above and their beauty, you said, ‘my dad said he hated me before he died.’ He said nothing in response, as you’d expected. ‘And I can’t stop thinking about it. I- I keep wondering if he really meant what he said or if he just said it because he was angry.’ Another tear rolled down your cheek. ‘I guess I deserved it; I’m a thief. A good for nothing thief.’ 

He listened to you and your grief, nodding his head gently, letting you know that he was there for you, even if the words you spoke were wasted on his ears. ‘I hope my grandmother’s okay,’ you said, thinking back to the cafe you had often shared a meal at. ‘She never liked my papa and, if I tell her what he said to me, I just know she’ll be furious.’ You smiled, ‘oh, she will hate him.’ 

The words kept pouring past your lips, you had little control to police what was said and, had he been able to understand you, he would have known that you were the first born child of your family, that you had never felt that close to your parents as they always seemed preoccupied with one another. It only worsened, you told Simon, when you had moved away onto the farm and, when Hattie was born, you didn’t stand a change for fair treatment.

No.

Anyone else would have despised their siblings as a result, but you didn’t. She knew not of the treatment you suffered and she was so fiercely loyal, it made your heart weary. You told him how you were having doubts as to whether or not there was a God as you couldn’t conceive a world in which he would be okay with people suffering as they were in that moment and you asked him if he felt the same way.

There was no response to your question, so you changed the subject. 

You spoke until the stars gleamed bright, until your face matched the blueness of the nights sky and, when you had finished, he said, ‘Je suis désolé.’ 

More than likely, he was apologising for his limited knowledge of the language as you noted the sadness in his eyes as his mouth drew downwards as he spoke. You knew better, nevertheless, although it did not keep you from imagining you lived in the world where he understood everything you had said and, to your heartache, he was sympathetic in spite of you clear sin of questioning the Lord and his plan. 

The elderly woman stepped outside to call you in for supper soon after you had finished your one sided conversation with Simon. With an apron tied around her waist, she looked you up and down, notably at your bare feet. When she took in the rest of your outfit she asked, ‘where are you travelling to?’

You explained to the woman that you were on course to Amiens and that the British soldiers you were with were escorting you there after the untimely passing of your parents. She gasped when you told them of the gunshots you had heard and she clutched her chest when you recalled to her the whimper of your family dog following the first gunshot — the one that made you aware of the threat inside your home.

As you moved through the inn, she stated that she would provide you with better clothing than what you found yourself in and, when she saw Hattie sitting beside the Captain at the table, she added that she would also find something for her to wear too as, in spite of the rain going off, her little cotton nightdress was soaked.

You thanked for profusely for her kindness and she led you to your seat, pressing a kiss atop your hair. Simon took a seat beside you in the dining room, the centre of the table lined with candles. 

‘Where have you been?’ asked your sister, ‘I woke up and you were gone.’ 

‘I was getting some fresh air,’ you answered, ‘I’m sorry if I scared you.’ 

‘I thought something had happened… like what happened with mama and papa.’ 

Price chimed in, ‘and what did I tell you, ma petit?’ 

Hattie turned to look at the man. ‘That she was okay cause she was with Simon.’ The man beside you lifted his head.

The Captain hummed, ‘and was I wrong?’ 

‘Well…’ her words drifted before she came to her confusion. ‘No, Monsieur l’ours.’ 

‘Exactly,’ said the elder.

That night, you dined as a family, sharing stories with the owners of the inn, Price acting as the middle man between the old couple and his squad mates.

Hattie was ravenous, her cheeks puffed out as she chewed on a bite of food which was slightly too big for her. Garrick used a napkin to wipe her mouth when he noticed a dollop of red sauce hanging off her bottom lip. It was a pure sight and you were surprised when she didn’t try and pull away from him as she had done whenever you tried to wipe her face.

She sat perfectly still and let him. 

In place of misery, in that moment, you were reminded that there were still traces of humanity to be uncovered in the rubble of the ruins. 

[manicrouge]

I AM MERELY MAN (CH. 4)

CHAPTER FOUR: THE QUESTION OF FAITH

[SIMON RILEY X F!READER] - MASTERLIST - IAMM MASTERLIST - PLAYLIST

[ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴛʜᴇ ᴋɪɴᴅ ᴏᴡɴᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ᴀɴ ɪɴɴ ᴘʀᴏᴠɪᴅᴇꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪᴛʜ ꜱʜᴇʟᴛᴇʀ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ɴɪɢʜᴛ.

[ᴄᴡ]: ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛ ɪɴᴊᴜʀʏ, ᴅɪʀᴇᴄᴛ ʀᴇꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ʙɪʙʟᴇ, Qᴜᴇꜱᴛɪᴏɴɪɴɢ ꜰᴀɪᴛʜ ɪɴ ɢᴏᴅ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ɪʟʟᴜꜱɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴇxᴜᴀʟ ᴀꜱꜱᴀᴜʟᴛ

THE LAST TIME you saw your grandmother, you were still in your teenage years.

Your mother might have been pregnant with Hattie, although, you weren’t sure of that. You had met her in a cafe, the one your she had been attending since she was a child. It had been a joke between the pair of you that she would most-likely end up outliving the owners — a young married couple who served both a ceramic pot of tea and some pastries.

The plates they were painted with small pink flowers, the outer rims lined with gold paint. In spite of the slightly lavish location as the cafe was infamous for being quite expensive, your grandmother was anything but as she opened her mouth and indulged like a savage animal on her croissant. Smacking her lips together, she stained her tongue with her ruby-red lipstick in an attempt consume every last one of the flakes of pastry around her mouth.

It was only when you stepped in, pressing your fingertips against her wrinkled flesh, wiping away the mess she had made of herself that she relented.

She thanked you, slurring her words as her mouth was still full of half-chewed pastry, washing her food down with a loud slurp of tea. Her lipstick marked the edge of her teacup and, when she had noticed a passerby walking around the outside of the cafe staring at her, she asked him, very simply, if he wished to kiss her as he was so blatantly admiring her.

The man blushed as he scurried away from her, head turned down at his leather dress shoes. The mind brought her onto a different conversation, almost a reminder of what she had been intending on telling you since the pair of you had sat down.

She told you about how she wished to see you with a man who treated you right, stating that, if she were to find out you settled for a boy, why, she would be furious!

You laughed at her words, your face aching from smiling.

It was a constant with her — the aching in your face, as she seemed to be addicted to hearing the sound of your laughter and seeing joy on your expression.

The old woman went on to tell you how furious she was when her daughter — your mother — had settled for someone like your father. Truth be told, when she had announced their engagement, she had wept harder than she had at her own mother’s funeral.

‘She was a bitch, anyway, ma petite chou,’ she had said upon seeing the horror on your face. 

She insisted on one thing before you left to the countryside: she would see you again, no matter what.

And, if she were to perish beforehand, why, her ghost would make itself right at home right with you. The thought, when you were sixteen had terrified you, however, now being a twenty-three year old, wandering through the countryside with four British soldiers and your orphaned little sister, the presence of your grandmother (ghostly or not) would have been a definite comfort.

It had been twelve hours or so since your parents and the family dog had been murdered.

At least, you thought it had been as the moon, which had been in the middle of the sky had now been replaced by the sun.

Nature seemed to feel the ache in your chest for, as soon as the day had broken through the night-sky, it had began to rain. Your cotton frock, the one you had been stripping out of the night prior was soaked, appearing grey as opposed to white. Simon, the silent fellow, had offered you his coat a while ago but you refused it. A part of you regretted doing so as your teeth chattered and the fabric of your dress stuck to your skin.

You walked behind the men, looking at your sister who was in the arms of who you had since learned was the groups Captain with MacTavish’s — as they called him — jacket wrapped securely around her. She had been awake for most of the night and, even when you had stopped for a brief rest, she refused to sleep. 

Eventually, her body gave in as her eyes drooped lower and lower until they closed. Even in her sleep, she kept a vice-grip on the toy Price had given her, thumb in her mouth like she was a baby. Her nose was red raw, eyelashes clotted together, still slightly wet from all the weeping she had done.

Your attention had been so fixated on your sister that you hadn’t noticed Simon’s presence until you caught sight of him holding his coat out to you yet again. Whatever he said to you, you knew it had to do with your chattering teeth and, without argument, you took it out of his hands, wrapping it around yourself. 

‘Merci,’ you said. 

He nodded, remaining by your side like a loyal mutt. 

Out of all the men in the squad, you realised that he was the one who watched you the most.

Just as you were with him, he seemed almost fascinated by you. You smiled slightly at the thought, all for your face to throb. A brutal reminder that, the perpetrator of the crime was no more. Life had changed so much so quickly and you thanked your father silently for not executing the four soldiers for, had it not been for them, you and your sister would have been in a similar situation to theirs, or worse.

You couldn’t stomach the thought of what could have happened to the pair of you; you had heard stories the few times you had went into the nearby town to run errands with your father, rumours of just how brutal the Nazi’s were, especially when it came to women. 

You shivered again. 

Initially, before it had started to rain, they had been following a map with the intent of making it to Reims before sundown. The map, however, was discarded, tucked away in the pockets of one of the men as the rain threatened to turn the flimsy piece of paper in two. Your feet were aching at this stage, the flat pumps you had managed to slip on in your escape hardly enough to fare well with the calamitous terrain.

It’d be a miracle if you even managed to make it to Reims, let alone Amiens as you had planned to. 

‘How do you know where we’re going?’ you asked, directing you question to the man in front of you.

He took a couple of seconds to process what you had said to him. 

‘I fought in the First World War,’ he answered, ‘was only young —  a baby — when I was in that war. I was stationed in France, the path we’re on right now is where the trenches were.’

‘How old were you?’ 

‘16, maybe 17,’ he said, ‘I just enlisted too — wanted to be like my father.’ 

‘And you learned French during the war?’ 

‘Oui,’ he said with a careful nod, not wanting to wake the sleeping child in his arms. 

‘How come Simon doesn’t know French?’ 

Price sucked in a breath. ‘He has a… tough time learning things sometimes. He’s not book smart. Put him in an active warzone, he's in his element, put him in a classroom, he'd be helpless. ’ 

The man in question was looking between the pair of you. 

‘I see.’ 

The conversation died after your enquiry and, when you looked back at the man walking along side you, he was looking at you again.

You expected to see fury in his eyes as you had spoken about him so blatantly without involving him in the conversation. In fact, you were sure that your face was bright red, even after you and Price had stopped.

You were surprised by the fact that he chose to remain beside you, although, you weren’t unwelcome to his presence either.

No, the pair of you settled, orbiting between one another an inexplicable feeling of peace despite the tragedy you had faced the night prior. 

The freedom you now had came with a severe price, being able to explore the countryside without the prying eyes of your father, while a delight, was also a stark reminder of what you had lost.

It could have been called overbearing and tiresome, the experience of being prisoner in your own home all because your heart bled for the ‘wrong people’, and your parents were much too prepared to address your kindness as a fatal flaw, whilst still worshipping figures who were described as ‘omnibenevolent’.

In a strange way, their protection worked to demonise the love you kept in your heart.

Also working to make you think that you were born with a sickness all because you did not want good people to suffer. Maybe it was a flaw, you’d considered it a lot in all the time you had spent trapped inside the house. 

Their reason did not quite connect with you, however. 

You all walked until you caught sight of civilisation once more, a small village with stone walls and a small community of locals. The switch from the grass to pavement was welcome as you finally felt steady on your feet for the first time in what felt like forever. You hobbled alongside the booted men, you sisters hand in yours as she walked beside you, having woken up sometime ago.

The jacket she was wearing reacher her ankles, sleeves bunched up as she held onto her stuffed rabbit. The cotton nightdress she had worn to bed that night was stained green at the bottom, her shoes, similar to yours, ruined by the walking she herself had done. She did, however, seem steadier on her feet in comparison to you. One step in particular caused you to hiss and, when you did, Simon’s eyes were immediately on you. He caught the attention of his Captain, and Price spoke for him. ‘Simon asked if you’re okay.’ 

‘Oui, I’m fine — my shoes are just rubbing me,’ you sheepishly confessed. 

Price relayed what you had said to Simon who stops in his tracks immediately, removing his rucksack. He says something to Price which causes the three men to stop in their tracks.

Without saying anything else, Simon moved his bag so he was wearing it across the front of his body and, with his hands, he motioned for you to approach him. At first, you offered him a confused look, waiting for confirmation of what exactly he wanted from you. 

Price pitched in with an explanation. ‘He said he’ll carry you.’ 

Promptly, you shook your head declaring, ‘I’m fine!’ 

‘He’s not going to take no for an answer — c’mere, ma petit,’ he said, holding his hand out to your sister.

Hattie glanced at you. 

‘Go on,’ you said, having a feeling Simon would have swept you off your feet had you tried to stand your ground.

Her hand slipped out of yours and she took hold of Price’s.

Approaching Simon, he crouched down, holding his hands out behind him. You placed your hands against his shoulders, his taking hold of the bottom of your thighs. You couldn’t help the squeal that escaped your lips when you were hoisted up onto his back. With your legs wrapped around his waist, he looked at you as if to check you were okay and, when you nodded your head, he continued on with his journey.

The other men stood still momentarily, allowing him to get ahead of them as they took in the sight of the pair of you. The sight from his height was quite breathtaking and you took in every single thing, the sight of the sun slowly setting between two green peeks, the beams of its arms reaching out to you, gently brushing against your face.

The heat was feverish, chasing away the coldness you had suffered from the rain and felt almost… loving. Akin to the embrace of a parental figure determined to reduce whatever sadness you had to cinders. Only, this time, the embrace reached down from the heavens, all to hold you one last time. 

It was that that caused your eyes to water for, without the pain of each step taking you attention away from the truth of what had happened, it finally hit you.

And what a damning, unforgiving blow it was — the realisation that they were truly gone.

So much seemed wrong with the world with the absence of them and it had only been a day. Would it worsen with each passing day, or maybe even every passing second? Could you outrun it, or would you be forced to relive the same grief what had your throat growing tighter and tight by the second? 

None of you had spoken that night. 

Not one word shared after your mother had requested Hattie join her and your father for dinner. You had heard the voice of your mother through the thin walls of the house reading Hattie the same bedtime story she had read to you when you had been a child.

You'd sat and listened to her, mouthing the words of the story. A tale of love and light in the times of despair. She’d taken it from the Bible, the story of Job: the man who lost everything and more and, still, he kept his faith in God.

She’d picked a good story, you thought, concerning the times and how you were feeling right in that moment, as they were stripped away from you without having much of a say. Yet, you would be a fraud if you were to stay you still entirely had faith in the God that had been so willing to take them away from you.

Not only you, but your sister too. What had she done wrong in her short life to warrant such cruelty? Did she even need to be tested to prove she was loyal in the first place? As far as you were concerned, she was born without sin so why was she being forced to suffer so?

You knew not the plan of the Lord, and you supposed you were in no position to question Him and why He was doing the things He was. That didn’t mean you weren't going to think it, so long as no one else heard it, you were quite sure you wouldn’t be destined to an eternity to burning. 

You were, however, destined to an eternity of knowing that, during his last hours on the Earth, your father hated you.

He hated you enough to strike you across the cheek for doing something you had thought to be the correct thing, and you were forever destined to remain tormented at the prospect of him being truthful in his exchange with you.

If you had the opportunity to redo the entire day, a part of you dreamt of leaving the soldiers who were helping you and your sister to safety to starve all for the sake of having some sort of feigned comfort. But, you saw it in his face and you heard it in his voice: he’d been holding onto those words for a long time. Longer than he had cared to let onto, the action itself was hardly a crime. People were hungry, and like the Lord he worshipped, you fed them, replenished them with bread and wine. 

The blood and body of Christ.

As a result, Simon had the strength to carry you on his back, and all of them had had the strength to carry your sister as she slept in their arms. Would he curse you knowing that your action had brought you salvation in the form of selfless soldiers? Or would he still detest you and everything you’d done in your life?

It was impossible to say and, unfortunately, you would never discover the answer. 

Beyond the stone walls of the small village was an inn. It was quaint, small, and when the own, who was a plump elderly woman caught sight of the men’s uniforms, she rushed out into the street, waving about a white cloth.

They stopped in their tracks and, without waiting for an answer from them, she took hold of Johnny’s hand, dragging him towards the entrance of the inn, mumbling to them, ‘come, come!’ He did as he was told — you all did — granted, you were bound to follow wherever Simon went.

You climbed down off his shoulders before entering the inn, uttering ‘merci’ to Simon. He followed closely behind you. Your sister kept hold of Price’s hand, glancing over her shoulder to make sure you were still there.

To assure her, you placed your hand atop her head and ruffled her hair. 

‘You must be starved!’ exclaimed the woman, ‘you’re headed to Dunkirk, oui?’ 

Price nodded his head. ‘How do you know?’ 

‘It’s was broadcasted over the radio, M’sieur! But you are still so far away — two days walk at the very least. Please, stay here and rest, even if it’s only a couple of hours; you need your strength.’ 

Her offer was gracious and she held Price’s free hand tightly. ‘If you’re sure it won’t be too much trouble, mademoiselle.’ 

She shook her head instantly, ‘not at all — you’re fighting for my country, for my freedom. There is a room upstairs, number two, please go and get settled, I will call you when supper is ready.’ 

Not wanting to insult the woman and her generous offer, you all climbed the stairs in a single file line due to the space being quite cramped in spite of it being somewhere where many people could supposedly stay at once.

Garrick opened the door to the bedroom first.

It was small, but spacious enough for all of you to enter. Granted, you did feel slightly cramped. You and your sister sat on the double bed in the centre of the room, Price took a seat on a wooden rocking chair in the corner, and the others found a space on the floor to sit.

Hattie fell asleep almost immediately, her arm across your waist, nose digging into your forearm. The rabbit plushie she had was pressed between the pair of you, tucked slightly under her arm, nestled in the crevice of her armpit.

Your head rested atop of hers and you closed your eyes too. Your feet throbbed, having developed a heart beat of their own, the dull aching in your cheek causing you to lift your head, moving so you were rest against one of the wooden beams of the headboard as opposed to having you cheek pressed against her head. 

Everyone, having been exhausted from their trek, slept soundly. 

--

You awoke to the sound of something shifting.

It was quiet. Expertly so.

You lifted your head to catch the sight of the door to the room closing with a gentle click. Hattie was still very much glued to your side as, when you peered down, the little girls face was nestled in the side of your neck, her hot breath fanning against your skin.

You blinked slowly, taking a moment to pull yourself from the brief sleep you’d had. Sitting up, you took hold of the child lying beside you, moving her so she was lying on a pillow as opposed to yourself, tensing at the sound of a loud snore which tore through the chest of the Captain. It was akin to the ferocious growling of an old motor and, when you turned to look at him, you found him sitting upright against the rocking chair, arms crossed over himself. His head was tilted towards, stomach raising and falling with each breath he took.

MacTavish and Garrick were situated on the other side of the room, having opted to use each other as a pillow as Garrick laid he head atop of Johnny’s, the pair of them sitting with their backs against the wall.

Simon, however, was nowhere to be found.

With a cautious shift, your breath hitched in your throat as you moved out of the bed, tensing with each creak and shift of the bed frame.

Leaning over, you peeled your pumps off, observing the damage the walk had done to your feet. There were quite a few blisters on the soles of your feet, alongside on the back of your heel, where the edge of the shoe had been digging into your skin, leaving an angry red mark in its wake.

Your first steps up and out of the bed were staggered, leaving you huffing and puffing, arms out in front of you in an effort to keep yourself from stumbling onto the sleeping Captain on the ground. 

Continuing on your mission, you only dared to take your first full breath once you had escaped the confines of the room, knowing full-well that Hattie would be safe with the three, even though they were sleeping.

And thus, you embarked on mission to find the masked man who had disappeared. Your mission took you downstairs, in the lobby of the inn, where you found an elderly man sitting behind the desk, newspaper in his hand as he was assisted by the candle light as the night was slowly creeping in. Upon hearing the creaking of the last step on the stairs, he raised his head from his paper, looking at you. ‘Is everything okay, Mademoiselle?’ 

Your hand gripped the bannister and you slowly nodded your head, looking around the lobby. ‘You’re looking for the man, oui?’ 

‘Oui,’ you answered, nodding. 

‘He’s through there, sitting out in the garden,’ explained the man, pointing towards a closed door, ‘supper will be ready soon.’ 

‘Merci,’ you said with a smile. 

You left the man to his reading as you exited the inn, stepping out into the garden.

The land was not quite enveloped by darkness as of yet and you estimated it would roughly be an hour or so before nighttime had officially settled. In place of the nights sky was a beautiful array of colour — pinks, blues, oranges, yellows, even the slightest hint of purple. And, amongst all the colour, like jewels, shone stars, their full brightness washed out due to the sheer brightness of the sun who intended on making her final minutes count.

The garden of the inn was quaint, a path lined with gravel, twisting and curling through the grass, ending at a wooden gate. There were a few trees, small in size, and a wooden bench tucked beneath the only weeping willow in the corner of the garden. Its branches hung limply, obscuring the man who had taken a seat there.

In his lap, you spied a book. As though he sensed you looking at him, he closed it, lifting his head. His eyes smiled when they caught yours. You took that as an invitation, stepping down off the stone steps, holding the wall to steady yourself as you treaded across the path as opposed to the path, knowing your feet would be agony if you were to do so. Ducking beneath the branches of the willow, he shifted to make space for you on the bench and you took a seat beside him. The journal on his lap remained closed, and you placed your hands against your legs, smoothing out the wrinkled white skirt of your dress. 

Neither of you spoke for a while until you came to the realisation that you had not exactly introduced yourself to him. And, in spite of the barrier between the pair of you, you tapped his forearm. He turned to look at you and, similar to what you had done the day prior, outside of the barn, you pointed at yourself, ‘je m’appelle.’ It left your mouth stiffly leaving you to realise just how long it had been since you had had the chance of introducing yourself to a stranger. You told him your name, following it up sweetly with, ‘it’s nice to meet you.’ 

He looked at you, it taking a short moment to register what you had said to him. ‘Je m’appelle Simon.’ 

You already knew his name, having heard in passing, yet, the intimacy of the act of introduction left your heart thudding in your chest. You smiled as he went on to say clumsily, ‘o- on est les amis… oui?’ It was sickeningly endearingly, so much so that, he question — asking if the pair of you were friends or not — had you teary eyed. You nodded eagerly, unsure as to where the sudden emotions had appeared from. He noticed too, when a tear rolled down your cheek, lifting his calloused hand to wipe it away. Despite the roughness of his hands, he was terribly gentle as he chased the water away, saying, ‘I’m sorry,’ this time in English. 

You understood him, a laugh escaping your lips. ‘Je suis stupide.’

‘No,’ he said.

When he withdrew his hand, you settled against him, your head resting against his shoulder, craving some form of temporary comfort. It worked well, unfortunately being unable to chase away the pit in your chest.

You knew he wouldn’t understand a word you said to him, but, captured by the sight of the heavens above and their beauty, you said, ‘my dad said he hated me before he died.’ He said nothing in response, as you’d expected. ‘And I can’t stop thinking about it. I- I keep wondering if he really meant what he said or if he just said it because he was angry.’ Another tear rolled down your cheek. ‘I guess I deserved it; I’m a thief. A good for nothing thief.’ 

He listened to you and your grief, nodding his head gently, letting you know that he was there for you, even if the words you spoke were wasted on his ears. ‘I hope my grandmother’s okay,’ you said, thinking back to the cafe you had often shared a meal at. ‘She never liked my papa and, if I tell her what he said to me, I just know she’ll be furious.’ You smiled, ‘oh, she will hate him.’ 

The words kept pouring past your lips, you had little control to police what was said and, had he been able to understand you, he would have known that you were the first born child of your family, that you had never felt that close to your parents as they always seemed preoccupied with one another. It only worsened, you told Simon, when you had moved away onto the farm and, when Hattie was born, you didn’t stand a change for fair treatment.

No.

Anyone else would have despised their siblings as a result, but you didn’t. She knew not of the treatment you suffered and she was so fiercely loyal, it made your heart weary. You told him how you were having doubts as to whether or not there was a God as you couldn’t conceive a world in which he would be okay with people suffering as they were in that moment and you asked him if he felt the same way.

There was no response to your question, so you changed the subject. 

You spoke until the stars gleamed bright, until your face matched the blueness of the nights sky and, when you had finished, he said, ‘Je suis désolé.’ 

More than likely, he was apologising for his limited knowledge of the language as you noted the sadness in his eyes as his mouth drew downwards as he spoke. You knew better, nevertheless, although it did not keep you from imagining you lived in the world where he understood everything you had said and, to your heartache, he was sympathetic in spite of you clear sin of questioning the Lord and his plan. 

The elderly woman stepped outside to call you in for supper soon after you had finished your one sided conversation with Simon. With an apron tied around her waist, she looked you up and down, notably at your bare feet. When she took in the rest of your outfit she asked, ‘where are you travelling to?’

You explained to the woman that you were on course to Amiens and that the British soldiers you were with were escorting you there after the untimely passing of your parents. She gasped when you told them of the gunshots you had heard and she clutched her chest when you recalled to her the whimper of your family dog following the first gunshot — the one that made you aware of the threat inside your home.

As you moved through the inn, she stated that she would provide you with better clothing than what you found yourself in and, when she saw Hattie sitting beside the Captain at the table, she added that she would also find something for her to wear too as, in spite of the rain going off, her little cotton nightdress was soaked.

You thanked for profusely for her kindness and she led you to your seat, pressing a kiss atop your hair. Simon took a seat beside you in the dining room, the centre of the table lined with candles. 

‘Where have you been?’ asked your sister, ‘I woke up and you were gone.’ 

‘I was getting some fresh air,’ you answered, ‘I’m sorry if I scared you.’ 

‘I thought something had happened… like what happened with mama and papa.’ 

Price chimed in, ‘and what did I tell you, ma petit?’ 

Hattie turned to look at the man. ‘That she was okay cause she was with Simon.’ The man beside you lifted his head.

The Captain hummed, ‘and was I wrong?’ 

‘Well…’ her words drifted before she came to her confusion. ‘No, Monsieur l’ours.’ 

‘Exactly,’ said the elder.

That night, you dined as a family, sharing stories with the owners of the inn, Price acting as the middle man between the old couple and his squad mates.

Hattie was ravenous, her cheeks puffed out as she chewed on a bite of food which was slightly too big for her. Garrick used a napkin to wipe her mouth when he noticed a dollop of red sauce hanging off her bottom lip. It was a pure sight and you were surprised when she didn’t try and pull away from him as she had done whenever you tried to wipe her face.

She sat perfectly still and let him. 

In place of misery, in that moment, you were reminded that there were still traces of humanity to be uncovered in the rubble of the ruins. 

[manicrouge]

It's your birthday, and you hate it.

You told John that too - you don't want to do anything for it, you just want the day to be normal; there's nothing special about the day. You refuse to elaborate on it and he has tried and tried to get the truth out of you, but you just won't budge.

John has been the same about his birthday, you've only been dating for a short while, but, when it came to his day, you admittedly did spoil him in spite of him remarking that he had you and he didn't want anything else, nor did he need anything else.

So, when it's the day of your birthday and wake up in John's house to find nothing out of the ordinary, you don't think anything of it - in fact, you smile. During breakfast, he proposes going to the park that has the quaint kiosk you like.

"Nothing special, right?"

"No, love," sighs the man, "it's a nice day, oughta make the most out of it."

Thinking nothing of it, you get changed and before you know it, you're in his car, riding to the park with his hand settled on your thigh.

Upon making it to the park, the pair of you take a leisurely stroll until you make it to the lake. You smile at the sight of the kiosk, however, he pulls you to the right of it, an you walk across the field, ducking between overgrown trees.

In the centre of the small cove, there's a picnic basket, and bunting hanging from the trees. Your jaw drops - there's no one else in sight and the place looks like something from a fairytale.

"John, I told you-"

"And I'm telling you that you're my girl and you deserve to be spoiled, yeah?" asks the man as he escorts you over to the blanket, guiding you to the ground. There's an array of fruits and chocolates, a quaint cake perched in the middle of the display.

You're teary eyed as you say, "Thank you."

The man chuckles light-heartedly, wrapping his arm around your shoulder as he pulls you against his chest, pressing a kiss against your temple. "Don't be stupid, sweetheart," he scoffs, looking at you, his smile reaching his eyes, "I love you."

Snivelling, you hold his face, smiling brightly as you say, "I love you too," before placing your lips against his.

[manicrouge]

I AM MERELY MAN (CH. 3)

CHAPTER THREE: SCREAMS IN THE SILENCE OF THE NIGHT

[SIMON RILEY X F!READER] - MASTERLIST - IAMM MASTERLIST - PLAYLIST

[ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴇᴍʏ ɪꜱ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴏʀꜱᴛᴇᴘ.

[ᴄᴡ]: ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ɴᴀᴢɪ ɢᴇʀᴍᴀɴʏ, ᴍɪɴᴏʀ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴏᴍᴇꜱᴛɪᴄ ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ, ᴘᴇᴛ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ

PRICE SOON RETURNED, the absence of you, the doe-eyed farm girl, notable to Simon as he hadn’t picked his pen up since returning, in spite of sitting in front of his journal.

His Captain closed the door to the barn, looking down at him and, rather than returning to his makeshift bed, he approached him, taking a seat at the opposite side of the table. He sat down with a grunt, pulling a rag out of his pocket, blowing his nose into it. Sniffing, he tucked it back into his pocket, wiping his hands against his pants and said, ‘she wanted to come with us.’

Simon blinked. ‘She’s been hit, hasn’t she?’ 

‘Unsurprising,’ Price said with a lighthearted shrug, ’her father was wound up enough talking to us. I can’t imagine he was exactly happy with his daughter robbing food off them to give it to us.’ 

To the man, it seemed to be a matter of fact, it was what she deserved, plainly put.

Well, not exactly; he knew his Captain would not be so careless to disregard the actions of the man, rather, in typical fashion for him, he sought to understand the old man as opposed to casting him out completely.

Retrieving the bottle of wine which had been left in the middle of the table, Price brought it to his mouth and took a swig. ‘He shouldn’t have hit her, though,’ he added, ‘she seemed beside herself, but it’ll only have been the heat of the moment because I know she’d regret leaving with us.’

‘She seemed adamant.’ 

‘She was,’ hummed the man, ‘and it kills ya, y’know? Having to look into the eyes of a young woman and tell her that she’s better off staying put when… well, I don’t know.’ 

‘When what?’ asked Simon.

‘When we’re gonna lose this place to the Nazi’s.’ 

It was the first time he’d spoken of their grim reality out loud, acknowledging the failure none of them had wished to touch. He’d known it since the call on the radio, that something was gravely wrong, and he was not wrong in his assessment of the situation.

They were running from the German’s, permitting them to engulf the entirety of France all because it was a battle they simply could not win. So what of the little farm they had sought refuge in? What of the little girl who had been playing so freely in the field when they first found the place and the family dog? Would she end up like the children they had encountered on the travels, the justification for the crime against her being scrawled in a note and left for the husband who had left the home, trusting to return to his loving with and little girls? Or would it be worse? Suddenly the desperation of the woman, although he knew she knew little, made sense.

Price drank from the bottle again. 

‘I wonder what the people ‘round here think of all this — do they even understand what trouble they’re in?’ 

‘Wouldn’t bet on it,’ said Simon, glancing at his journal. His fingers twitched, grasping his knee. He blew out a breath of air as though it was smoke from a cigarette. ‘But you can’t save everyone, Cap’n.’ 

War taught many lessons, in a harsh manner too.

And, out of all of them, he knew that his Captain struggled coming to terms with that. It hadn’t been too difficult to guess, although, he didn’t have to do that as he had said it to the group one night while they’d been camping outside in the woods.

It had been just a couple of days since they had stumbled across that house in the middle of nowhere when he had returned from his scavenge with a lump of sticks under his arm to craft a fire. Simon had volunteered to do so, taking the time to look around the wooded area they’d found themselves in. It was a stunning location, just by a small creek where they had filled their canteens and settled down for the night.

As he was crafting the fire, his Captain set to work making what little food they had left in their packs, and it was then that he confessed that he had never thought his job would be so difficult. It stopped all of them in their tracks, to hear a beacon of a man confess to struggling with the truth of what war entailed. He sounded like a hypocrite as he denounced the very thing that put money in his pocket. None of them disrupted him, however, and he confessed (sourly) that he had only joined the cadets as a child as had wanted to save everyone who suffered at the hands of evil. 

‘It was what my old man did, an’ I wanted to follow in his footsteps. He taught me everything I knew.’ He smiled at the thought of his father, all for his lips to curl downwards as he solemnly said, ‘but he never taught me that I couldn’t save everyone.’

Simon thought about that moment often, it springing to mind during their conversation with one another. To his words, Price was silent until he forced a laugh out of himself and said, ‘Don’t I know it.’ He shook his head, ‘wish I could, though. Really wish I could.’ 

The bottle of wine was set back in the centre of the table, though, the Captain made no effort to get up. Instead, he stayed. ‘When I first heard of the Nazi’s invasion of the Rhineland back in ’36, I was furious,’ he began, clearing his throat, ‘he waltzed right in there and took what they’d lost in Versailles — didn’t ask, didn’t so much as threat either, and what did we do? We sat on our arses and let it happen.’ His brows turned downwards and he sneered. ‘And then he just kept taking, and taking, and we did nothing. And you know, when Chamberlain got off that plane in ’38 and declared that there would be no war, I knew he was full of shit. I knew he didn’t have a fuckin’ clue what he was talkin’ about.’ 

It was in all the papers at home.

In fact, he had the newspapers on the desks of officers at the base, the declaration that the would be nothing but peace between all the nations. Even when he had seen them, he’d known better than to trust the judgement of a politician. Yes, he may have led the nation, but they didn’t know war. No; they understood words and only ever fought with them, never daring to pick up a rifle and resolve the conflict by fighting in it themselves. 

Rather, it was the burden of the common man — the flaws of the wealthy. 

‘None of this would’ve happened if we were allowed to stomp out the problem when we first noticed it.’ 

‘Nothing we can do about it now,’ said Simon with a sigh, drumming his fingers against the table. 

‘Doesn’t make it any easier.’ 

‘I know it doesn’t.’ 

They didn’t say much more to one another, mainly because they did not have the chance to for the growling of an engine outside caught the attention of the pair of them. In fact, it was so loud that the sleeping men behind him startled awake with a chortled snort.

The growling came to the stop with a squeal and clink. The voices which followed soon after were quiet, as though the intended on sneaking in without being caught, and they knew exactly what was beyond the doors of the barn when they heard one of the voices grunt out, ‘nein.’ 

‘Fuckin’ Jerry’s,’ said Johnny from behind him, ‘must be looting properties for supplies.’ 

‘What’s the call, Cap?’ asked Gaz.

Price rose to his feet, hand holding his pistol as he moved towards the door of the barn, peering through the crack. He turned back quickly, looking at all of the men. By that time, Simon had put his rucksack back on, holding the Mauser he had stolen. They could have left, crept out without alerting any of them, hell, he could have done that with ease.

Price, however, was anything but a coward. 

‘Get the family out of here,’ he said, ‘and kill every last one of the bastards.’ 

He wondered if the woman who had pleaded with him, the one who he had offered an apple slice which she had took so graciously, acting as though she had not been the reason he’d been allowed to eat, would be able to forgive him for dismissing her pleas and sending her back to the cottage. Granted, none of them had know what was awaiting them, unaware that the German’s were so close to them, although, they should have known they could not have existed without crossing paths with unruly evil. Still, he’d be damned if he were going to be responsible for the deaths of innocent people. 

They left the barn quickly, crouching in the hopes that the darkness would conceal any signs of them existing at all, hearing the voices of the men on the other side of the cottage.

The closer they got, the louder the voices of the enemy were.

Not a word of it made sense to his ears as there seemed to be one, nasally voice which pushed through all the rest of them. That must have been their lead: Captain, Officer, Lieutenant. Whatever he was, thought Simon, he was a smear of the ranks, a betrayer of goodness. It left him with an incurable sickness knowing that people were so willing to conform to the will of evil all for the sake acquiring a little power. 

No man. Only a boy would do something like that. 

The door to the cottage was forced open.

He recognised the sound of the door being kicked in, having done so on multiple occasions himself. There was no way the sound had not woken the occupants of the house, and the four men picked up their pace. The snarling of an animal and fierce barking echoed through the valley, followed by a whimper as a flash of light flooded the house.

Price directed them expertly, uttering to Simon that he and Johnny should take the front of the house, whilst him and Kyle would go in through the back. His request was met without argument as the two men wasted little time, rushing to the right of the house.

A face in the window, the same he had seen initially, caught his attention as himself and Johnny heard the squeak of hinges. To the left of him, a window was pried open. He saw you, the woman who had pleaded with him, holding your hand over the mouth of your sister who sobbed behind your hand.

The little girl looked upon the men with terror, hands firmly grasping the frame of the window as she shook her head. You looked to Simon and, just as you had done outside the barn, you said softly, ‘please.’ 

He stepped forward, taking the child into his arms, watching as your hand slipped from around her mouth. Her little body trembled in his hold, chest knocking into hers as she took frantic breaths, looking back for you. Johnny helped you climb out of the window, and when you had made it out, you closed it with a gentle hand.

There was shouting in the house, a mix of English and German swelling to form a bitter brawl, ending in the sound of a French plea and the pop of a gun shot, closely followed by another. Before the girl in his arms had the chance to scream at the sounds, you placed a hand firmly over her mouth whilst flinching at the sound of the gunshots yourself. 

‘We’ve got to get them out of here,’ said the Lieutenant. 

Johnny blinked in his direction, ‘what about—’

‘We won’t go too far,’ he reassured, ‘but they can’t stay here.’ 

MacTavish looked at you and your sister and then back to Simon. With a sigh, he nodded his head. Resting his hands against your shoulders, he said, ‘come.’ 

You stared at him and then back at the home that you had wished to leave, swallowing hard as you nodded at the man. ‘Oui, oui. Merci. Merci.’ 

The little girl in his hold continued to howl, the hand over her mouth keeping her from being too much of a threat. You walked between himself and his Sergeant, taking occasional looks back at your home as they pushed further through the fields of the farm.

Johnny had taken to holding his revolver, mumbling to you, in spite of their language barrier, how he was only carrying it ‘just in case.’

You, however, paid no mind to him as you looked at your sister. When they had made it far enough for their home to be quaint in the horizon, they stopped. 

Finally, you released her hold of the girls face. She cursed up a swarm, the only words he managed to capture from her blurting being the words ‘mama’ and ‘papa’.

You nodded as she cried, ultimately settling with shushing her, holding your arms out. Simon understood immediately, handing her back to you. You took hold of her gladly, wrapping your arms around her as though she was a baby, swaying side to side as you attempted to soothe her and her sorrow.

It was a compelling sight and your voice was so gentle, so careful. Whatever you spoke was pretty, and when you turned to face the moonlight, he noticed a slight sheen on your red cheek.

You yourself was miserable, terribly so, but you paid no mind to your sadness as you focused primarily on the child in your arms. Embarrassingly so, he couldn’t tear his eyes off the scene in front of him, paying more mind to the pair than his Sergeant who kept his eyes trained on the horizon. 

‘I’m still not seein’ anythin’, Lt.’ 

‘They’ll be here,’ said Simon, still looking at you. 

‘What are we gonna do about these two?’ 

‘Whatever we have to.’ 

They stayed longer than the muscle in his chest was content with for, with every passing second, the thudding in his ears seemed to worsen. The young girl seemed to settle a bit considering the circumstances as she rested her chin upon your shoulder, suckling on her thumb like she was a toddler.

He’d thought at first, she was too old to be doing that, again attempting to estimate how old she must have been. Had she been older than eight, he would have been surprised for she was quite small, better suited to be between the ages of five and seven.

In his train of thought, he stopped at the realisation that she was a child — a child who knew nothing of war, who had awoken to strangers in her home, and had no clue as to whether or not her mother and father were okay and he was judging her for attempting to find some semblance of comfort.

His judgement was soon cast away after that realisation and, when he turned his eyes to the horizon, he found two figures, holding more of a resemblance to shadows trudging over the hill.

Simon said to Johnny, ‘I’ll stay with the girls, go and find out who they are.’

His Sergeant, showing no fear whatsoever, took off, rushing down the slight hill they had climbed towards the two men, gun in hand. You turned to Simon, seemingly looking for answers. All he could offer you was a soft, ‘it’s okay.’  To that, you pressed your lips against the side of your sister’s head, continuing to cradle her in your arms. 

The lack of gunshots was telling that the men on the horizon were not the threat they could have been and, when he saw the third shadow of the Sergeant embracing the pair of them and the echoes of a short spout of laughter bouncing off the valley, he understood that the threats had been neutralised.

He waited for them, as did you and your young sister, your eyes casted upon the sight of them, only looking away when you heard the congested breathing of the Captain.

The grass beneath their feet as they rose up the incline crunched and snapped and their safe arrival was officially marked by the sound of Price blowing his nose into his handkerchief. 

‘What happened?’ Simon asked. 

‘Killed all of them,’ answered Garrick, ‘there were four of them.’ 

He hadn’t the opportunity to ask any more questions as you turned directly to Price, marching up to him, grasping his forearms with a vice-like grip, urgently rambling to him. You addressed him as  ‘Monsieur.’

The little girl lifted her head too, thumb still in her mouth as she looked to Price expectantly. For the first time in his life, Simon witnessed a look of apprehension on the face of his Captain, and it was only when you said, ‘please,’ that he dared to open his mouth.

What was said to you was unclear, he hadn’t the slightest clue until your hand slipped from off his arm to cover your mouth. 

The girl in your arms scream bloody murder. 

Escaping your hold, she seemed to wish to descend back to her home, quickly captured by Kyle who lifted her up off the ground.

She slammed her little hands into his shoulders as she wept, ‘NO! NO, NO, NO!’ 

As opposed to the outburst of rage from your younger sister, you stood and stared at the farm on the horizon. You didn’t blink, you didn’t speak, you kept your hand clasped over your mouth and stared.

It was an unnerving sight to behold, to have loss and grief conveyed without so much as a tear streaming down your bruising cheek.

Granted, maybe if it hadn’t been for the little girl screaming out, ‘MAMA, PAPA!’ He might have found it significantly harder to understand what had happened inside the cottage.

Kyle held the little girl, hand placed against the back of her head, her slapping growing sluggish as she fell victim to her grief, sobbing loudly. 

‘What happened?’ asked MacTavish. 

‘Both of them were shot before we had the chance to step in. The dog too,’ Price answered, looking at you who was still standing, staring at the home that had been ravished in the distance. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if there were more of them — we need to keep moving.’ 

‘What about the girls?’ 

‘We take them with her — she said they have family in Amiens, right?’ 

Your head lifted at the mention of Amiens. 

‘Yes,’ confirmed Simon. 

‘Then we’ll take them there.’ 

‘Right,’ said Johnny, ‘we needa keep movin’.’ 

‘That we do, Serg,’ said the Captain, yet, before daring to go anywhere, he approached the little girl in the arms of Sergeant Garrick.

Shrugging off his rucksack, he opened it and retrieved a small, plush rabbit. Shaking it in front of her, the toys ears flopped side to side and, as she snivelled, she took it gladly in her arms, burying her face into the top of its head.

‘Let's move out.’ 

[manicrouge]

I AM MERELY MAN (CH. 3)

CHAPTER THREE: SCREAMS IN THE SILENCE OF THE NIGHT

[SIMON RILEY X F!READER] - MASTERLIST - IAMM MASTERLIST - PLAYLIST

[ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴇᴍʏ ɪꜱ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴏʀꜱᴛᴇᴘ.

[ᴄᴡ]: ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ɴᴀᴢɪ ɢᴇʀᴍᴀɴʏ, ᴍɪɴᴏʀ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴏᴍᴇꜱᴛɪᴄ ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ, ᴘᴇᴛ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ

PRICE SOON RETURNED, the absence of you, the doe-eyed farm girl, notable to Simon as he hadn’t picked his pen up since returning, in spite of sitting in front of his journal.

His Captain closed the door to the barn, looking down at him and, rather than returning to his makeshift bed, he approached him, taking a seat at the opposite side of the table. He sat down with a grunt, pulling a rag out of his pocket, blowing his nose into it. Sniffing, he tucked it back into his pocket, wiping his hands against his pants and said, ‘she wanted to come with us.’

Simon blinked. ‘She’s been hit, hasn’t she?’ 

‘Unsurprising,’ Price said with a lighthearted shrug, ’her father was wound up enough talking to us. I can’t imagine he was exactly happy with his daughter robbing food off them to give it to us.’ 

To the man, it seemed to be a matter of fact, it was what she deserved, plainly put.

Well, not exactly; he knew his Captain would not be so careless to disregard the actions of the man, rather, in typical fashion for him, he sought to understand the old man as opposed to casting him out completely.

Retrieving the bottle of wine which had been left in the middle of the table, Price brought it to his mouth and took a swig. ‘He shouldn’t have hit her, though,’ he added, ‘she seemed beside herself, but it’ll only have been the heat of the moment because I know she’d regret leaving with us.’

‘She seemed adamant.’ 

‘She was,’ hummed the man, ‘and it kills ya, y’know? Having to look into the eyes of a young woman and tell her that she’s better off staying put when… well, I don’t know.’ 

‘When what?’ asked Simon.

‘When we’re gonna lose this place to the Nazi’s.’ 

It was the first time he’d spoken of their grim reality out loud, acknowledging the failure none of them had wished to touch. He’d known it since the call on the radio, that something was gravely wrong, and he was not wrong in his assessment of the situation.

They were running from the German’s, permitting them to engulf the entirety of France all because it was a battle they simply could not win. So what of the little farm they had sought refuge in? What of the little girl who had been playing so freely in the field when they first found the place and the family dog? Would she end up like the children they had encountered on the travels, the justification for the crime against her being scrawled in a note and left for the husband who had left the home, trusting to return to his loving with and little girls? Or would it be worse? Suddenly the desperation of the woman, although he knew she knew little, made sense.

Price drank from the bottle again. 

‘I wonder what the people ‘round here think of all this — do they even understand what trouble they’re in?’ 

‘Wouldn’t bet on it,’ said Simon, glancing at his journal. His fingers twitched, grasping his knee. He blew out a breath of air as though it was smoke from a cigarette. ‘But you can’t save everyone, Cap’n.’ 

War taught many lessons, in a harsh manner too.

And, out of all of them, he knew that his Captain struggled coming to terms with that. It hadn’t been too difficult to guess, although, he didn’t have to do that as he had said it to the group one night while they’d been camping outside in the woods.

It had been just a couple of days since they had stumbled across that house in the middle of nowhere when he had returned from his scavenge with a lump of sticks under his arm to craft a fire. Simon had volunteered to do so, taking the time to look around the wooded area they’d found themselves in. It was a stunning location, just by a small creek where they had filled their canteens and settled down for the night.

As he was crafting the fire, his Captain set to work making what little food they had left in their packs, and it was then that he confessed that he had never thought his job would be so difficult. It stopped all of them in their tracks, to hear a beacon of a man confess to struggling with the truth of what war entailed. He sounded like a hypocrite as he denounced the very thing that put money in his pocket. None of them disrupted him, however, and he confessed (sourly) that he had only joined the cadets as a child as had wanted to save everyone who suffered at the hands of evil. 

‘It was what my old man did, an’ I wanted to follow in his footsteps. He taught me everything I knew.’ He smiled at the thought of his father, all for his lips to curl downwards as he solemnly said, ‘but he never taught me that I couldn’t save everyone.’

Simon thought about that moment often, it springing to mind during their conversation with one another. To his words, Price was silent until he forced a laugh out of himself and said, ‘Don’t I know it.’ He shook his head, ‘wish I could, though. Really wish I could.’ 

The bottle of wine was set back in the centre of the table, though, the Captain made no effort to get up. Instead, he stayed. ‘When I first heard of the Nazi’s invasion of the Rhineland back in ’36, I was furious,’ he began, clearing his throat, ‘he waltzed right in there and took what they’d lost in Versailles — didn’t ask, didn’t so much as threat either, and what did we do? We sat on our arses and let it happen.’ His brows turned downwards and he sneered. ‘And then he just kept taking, and taking, and we did nothing. And you know, when Chamberlain got off that plane in ’38 and declared that there would be no war, I knew he was full of shit. I knew he didn’t have a fuckin’ clue what he was talkin’ about.’ 

It was in all the papers at home.

In fact, he had the newspapers on the desks of officers at the base, the declaration that the would be nothing but peace between all the nations. Even when he had seen them, he’d known better than to trust the judgement of a politician. Yes, he may have led the nation, but they didn’t know war. No; they understood words and only ever fought with them, never daring to pick up a rifle and resolve the conflict by fighting in it themselves. 

Rather, it was the burden of the common man — the flaws of the wealthy. 

‘None of this would’ve happened if we were allowed to stomp out the problem when we first noticed it.’ 

‘Nothing we can do about it now,’ said Simon with a sigh, drumming his fingers against the table. 

‘Doesn’t make it any easier.’ 

‘I know it doesn’t.’ 

They didn’t say much more to one another, mainly because they did not have the chance to for the growling of an engine outside caught the attention of the pair of them. In fact, it was so loud that the sleeping men behind him startled awake with a chortled snort.

The growling came to the stop with a squeal and clink. The voices which followed soon after were quiet, as though the intended on sneaking in without being caught, and they knew exactly what was beyond the doors of the barn when they heard one of the voices grunt out, ‘nein.’ 

‘Fuckin’ Jerry’s,’ said Johnny from behind him, ‘must be looting properties for supplies.’ 

‘What’s the call, Cap?’ asked Gaz.

Price rose to his feet, hand holding his pistol as he moved towards the door of the barn, peering through the crack. He turned back quickly, looking at all of the men. By that time, Simon had put his rucksack back on, holding the Mauser he had stolen. They could have left, crept out without alerting any of them, hell, he could have done that with ease.

Price, however, was anything but a coward. 

‘Get the family out of here,’ he said, ‘and kill every last one of the bastards.’ 

He wondered if the woman who had pleaded with him, the one who he had offered an apple slice which she had took so graciously, acting as though she had not been the reason he’d been allowed to eat, would be able to forgive him for dismissing her pleas and sending her back to the cottage. Granted, none of them had know what was awaiting them, unaware that the German’s were so close to them, although, they should have known they could not have existed without crossing paths with unruly evil. Still, he’d be damned if he were going to be responsible for the deaths of innocent people. 

They left the barn quickly, crouching in the hopes that the darkness would conceal any signs of them existing at all, hearing the voices of the men on the other side of the cottage.

The closer they got, the louder the voices of the enemy were.

Not a word of it made sense to his ears as there seemed to be one, nasally voice which pushed through all the rest of them. That must have been their lead: Captain, Officer, Lieutenant. Whatever he was, thought Simon, he was a smear of the ranks, a betrayer of goodness. It left him with an incurable sickness knowing that people were so willing to conform to the will of evil all for the sake acquiring a little power. 

No man. Only a boy would do something like that. 

The door to the cottage was forced open.

He recognised the sound of the door being kicked in, having done so on multiple occasions himself. There was no way the sound had not woken the occupants of the house, and the four men picked up their pace. The snarling of an animal and fierce barking echoed through the valley, followed by a whimper as a flash of light flooded the house.

Price directed them expertly, uttering to Simon that he and Johnny should take the front of the house, whilst him and Kyle would go in through the back. His request was met without argument as the two men wasted little time, rushing to the right of the house.

A face in the window, the same he had seen initially, caught his attention as himself and Johnny heard the squeak of hinges. To the left of him, a window was pried open. He saw you, the woman who had pleaded with him, holding your hand over the mouth of your sister who sobbed behind your hand.

The little girl looked upon the men with terror, hands firmly grasping the frame of the window as she shook her head. You looked to Simon and, just as you had done outside the barn, you said softly, ‘please.’ 

He stepped forward, taking the child into his arms, watching as your hand slipped from around her mouth. Her little body trembled in his hold, chest knocking into hers as she took frantic breaths, looking back for you. Johnny helped you climb out of the window, and when you had made it out, you closed it with a gentle hand.

There was shouting in the house, a mix of English and German swelling to form a bitter brawl, ending in the sound of a French plea and the pop of a gun shot, closely followed by another. Before the girl in his arms had the chance to scream at the sounds, you placed a hand firmly over her mouth whilst flinching at the sound of the gunshots yourself. 

‘We’ve got to get them out of here,’ said the Lieutenant. 

Johnny blinked in his direction, ‘what about—’

‘We won’t go too far,’ he reassured, ‘but they can’t stay here.’ 

MacTavish looked at you and your sister and then back to Simon. With a sigh, he nodded his head. Resting his hands against your shoulders, he said, ‘come.’ 

You stared at him and then back at the home that you had wished to leave, swallowing hard as you nodded at the man. ‘Oui, oui. Merci. Merci.’ 

The little girl in his hold continued to howl, the hand over her mouth keeping her from being too much of a threat. You walked between himself and his Sergeant, taking occasional looks back at your home as they pushed further through the fields of the farm.

Johnny had taken to holding his revolver, mumbling to you, in spite of their language barrier, how he was only carrying it ‘just in case.’

You, however, paid no mind to him as you looked at your sister. When they had made it far enough for their home to be quaint in the horizon, they stopped. 

Finally, you released her hold of the girls face. She cursed up a swarm, the only words he managed to capture from her blurting being the words ‘mama’ and ‘papa’.

You nodded as she cried, ultimately settling with shushing her, holding your arms out. Simon understood immediately, handing her back to you. You took hold of her gladly, wrapping your arms around her as though she was a baby, swaying side to side as you attempted to soothe her and her sorrow.

It was a compelling sight and your voice was so gentle, so careful. Whatever you spoke was pretty, and when you turned to face the moonlight, he noticed a slight sheen on your red cheek.

You yourself was miserable, terribly so, but you paid no mind to your sadness as you focused primarily on the child in your arms. Embarrassingly so, he couldn’t tear his eyes off the scene in front of him, paying more mind to the pair than his Sergeant who kept his eyes trained on the horizon. 

‘I’m still not seein’ anythin’, Lt.’ 

‘They’ll be here,’ said Simon, still looking at you. 

‘What are we gonna do about these two?’ 

‘Whatever we have to.’ 

They stayed longer than the muscle in his chest was content with for, with every passing second, the thudding in his ears seemed to worsen. The young girl seemed to settle a bit considering the circumstances as she rested her chin upon your shoulder, suckling on her thumb like she was a toddler.

He’d thought at first, she was too old to be doing that, again attempting to estimate how old she must have been. Had she been older than eight, he would have been surprised for she was quite small, better suited to be between the ages of five and seven.

In his train of thought, he stopped at the realisation that she was a child — a child who knew nothing of war, who had awoken to strangers in her home, and had no clue as to whether or not her mother and father were okay and he was judging her for attempting to find some semblance of comfort.

His judgement was soon cast away after that realisation and, when he turned his eyes to the horizon, he found two figures, holding more of a resemblance to shadows trudging over the hill.

Simon said to Johnny, ‘I’ll stay with the girls, go and find out who they are.’

His Sergeant, showing no fear whatsoever, took off, rushing down the slight hill they had climbed towards the two men, gun in hand. You turned to Simon, seemingly looking for answers. All he could offer you was a soft, ‘it’s okay.’  To that, you pressed your lips against the side of your sister’s head, continuing to cradle her in your arms. 

The lack of gunshots was telling that the men on the horizon were not the threat they could have been and, when he saw the third shadow of the Sergeant embracing the pair of them and the echoes of a short spout of laughter bouncing off the valley, he understood that the threats had been neutralised.

He waited for them, as did you and your young sister, your eyes casted upon the sight of them, only looking away when you heard the congested breathing of the Captain.

The grass beneath their feet as they rose up the incline crunched and snapped and their safe arrival was officially marked by the sound of Price blowing his nose into his handkerchief. 

‘What happened?’ Simon asked. 

‘Killed all of them,’ answered Garrick, ‘there were four of them.’ 

He hadn’t the opportunity to ask any more questions as you turned directly to Price, marching up to him, grasping his forearms with a vice-like grip, urgently rambling to him. You addressed him as  ‘Monsieur.’

The little girl lifted her head too, thumb still in her mouth as she looked to Price expectantly. For the first time in his life, Simon witnessed a look of apprehension on the face of his Captain, and it was only when you said, ‘please,’ that he dared to open his mouth.

What was said to you was unclear, he hadn’t the slightest clue until your hand slipped from off his arm to cover your mouth. 

The girl in your arms scream bloody murder. 

Escaping your hold, she seemed to wish to descend back to her home, quickly captured by Kyle who lifted her up off the ground.

She slammed her little hands into his shoulders as she wept, ‘NO! NO, NO, NO!’ 

As opposed to the outburst of rage from your younger sister, you stood and stared at the farm on the horizon. You didn’t blink, you didn’t speak, you kept your hand clasped over your mouth and stared.

It was an unnerving sight to behold, to have loss and grief conveyed without so much as a tear streaming down your bruising cheek.

Granted, maybe if it hadn’t been for the little girl screaming out, ‘MAMA, PAPA!’ He might have found it significantly harder to understand what had happened inside the cottage.

Kyle held the little girl, hand placed against the back of her head, her slapping growing sluggish as she fell victim to her grief, sobbing loudly. 

‘What happened?’ asked MacTavish. 

‘Both of them were shot before we had the chance to step in. The dog too,’ Price answered, looking at you who was still standing, staring at the home that had been ravished in the distance. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if there were more of them — we need to keep moving.’ 

‘What about the girls?’ 

‘We take them with her — she said they have family in Amiens, right?’ 

Your head lifted at the mention of Amiens. 

‘Yes,’ confirmed Simon. 

‘Then we’ll take them there.’ 

‘Right,’ said Johnny, ‘we needa keep movin’.’ 

‘That we do, Serg,’ said the Captain, yet, before daring to go anywhere, he approached the little girl in the arms of Sergeant Garrick.

Shrugging off his rucksack, he opened it and retrieved a small, plush rabbit. Shaking it in front of her, the toys ears flopped side to side and, as she snivelled, she took it gladly in her arms, burying her face into the top of its head.

‘Let's move out.’ 

[manicrouge]

I like to think that, in terms of proposal's, out of all the boy's in 141, Kyle is the one who does it in such a mundane manner that, at first, you don't realise that he's even asked you.

He's never been one for dramatics and the night started how any other night would. He'd been on leave for a while and, when he got home from the gym, he's carrying his gym bag in one hand and a bag of takeout in the other.

You're cosied up on the couch, a book in your lap and a smile immediately appears on your face as he drops his bag by the door and kicks off his trainers. Stepping into the living room of your shared apartment, he takes a seat beside you, wiggling his eyebrows. 'Got your favourite.'

'Doesn't that sorta... undo the workout you've just done?'

'Don't care,' he shrugs, clearing his throat as he sets the bag on the coffee table. He turns, looking over his shoulder and says, 'we should get married.'

You hum sweetly, hands brushing over his. His eyes remain on you until you gasp aloud. 'What?'

'We should get married.'

'Are you proposing?'

'Yes.'

You burst into a fit of laughter. 'Seriously?'

'Yeah,' nods the man, 'I was thinking about it on the way back. There's no point in dramatics, is there? You don't like being the centre of attention, anyway.'

'Oh my God.'

'Is that a yes?'

You nod eagerly, throwing yourself into his arms. Although, you choose to match his enthusiasm as you say, 'I guess so,' earning a laugh from your, now, fiancé.

[manicrouge]

I AM MERELY MAN (CH. 3)

CHAPTER THREE: SCREAMS IN THE SILENCE OF THE NIGHT

[SIMON RILEY X F!READER] - MASTERLIST - IAMM MASTERLIST - PLAYLIST

[ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴇᴍʏ ɪꜱ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴏʀꜱᴛᴇᴘ.

[ᴄᴡ]: ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ɴᴀᴢɪ ɢᴇʀᴍᴀɴʏ, ᴍɪɴᴏʀ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴏᴍᴇꜱᴛɪᴄ ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ, ᴘᴇᴛ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ

PRICE SOON RETURNED, the absence of you, the doe-eyed farm girl, notable to Simon as he hadn’t picked his pen up since returning, in spite of sitting in front of his journal.

His Captain closed the door to the barn, looking down at him and, rather than returning to his makeshift bed, he approached him, taking a seat at the opposite side of the table. He sat down with a grunt, pulling a rag out of his pocket, blowing his nose into it. Sniffing, he tucked it back into his pocket, wiping his hands against his pants and said, ‘she wanted to come with us.’

Simon blinked. ‘She’s been hit, hasn’t she?’ 

‘Unsurprising,’ Price said with a lighthearted shrug, ’her father was wound up enough talking to us. I can’t imagine he was exactly happy with his daughter robbing food off them to give it to us.’ 

To the man, it seemed to be a matter of fact, it was what she deserved, plainly put.

Well, not exactly; he knew his Captain would not be so careless to disregard the actions of the man, rather, in typical fashion for him, he sought to understand the old man as opposed to casting him out completely.

Retrieving the bottle of wine which had been left in the middle of the table, Price brought it to his mouth and took a swig. ‘He shouldn’t have hit her, though,’ he added, ‘she seemed beside herself, but it’ll only have been the heat of the moment because I know she’d regret leaving with us.’

‘She seemed adamant.’ 

‘She was,’ hummed the man, ‘and it kills ya, y’know? Having to look into the eyes of a young woman and tell her that she’s better off staying put when… well, I don’t know.’ 

‘When what?’ asked Simon.

‘When we’re gonna lose this place to the Nazi’s.’ 

It was the first time he’d spoken of their grim reality out loud, acknowledging the failure none of them had wished to touch. He’d known it since the call on the radio, that something was gravely wrong, and he was not wrong in his assessment of the situation.

They were running from the German’s, permitting them to engulf the entirety of France all because it was a battle they simply could not win. So what of the little farm they had sought refuge in? What of the little girl who had been playing so freely in the field when they first found the place and the family dog? Would she end up like the children they had encountered on the travels, the justification for the crime against her being scrawled in a note and left for the husband who had left the home, trusting to return to his loving with and little girls? Or would it be worse? Suddenly the desperation of the woman, although he knew she knew little, made sense.

Price drank from the bottle again. 

‘I wonder what the people ‘round here think of all this — do they even understand what trouble they’re in?’ 

‘Wouldn’t bet on it,’ said Simon, glancing at his journal. His fingers twitched, grasping his knee. He blew out a breath of air as though it was smoke from a cigarette. ‘But you can’t save everyone, Cap’n.’ 

War taught many lessons, in a harsh manner too.

And, out of all of them, he knew that his Captain struggled coming to terms with that. It hadn’t been too difficult to guess, although, he didn’t have to do that as he had said it to the group one night while they’d been camping outside in the woods.

It had been just a couple of days since they had stumbled across that house in the middle of nowhere when he had returned from his scavenge with a lump of sticks under his arm to craft a fire. Simon had volunteered to do so, taking the time to look around the wooded area they’d found themselves in. It was a stunning location, just by a small creek where they had filled their canteens and settled down for the night.

As he was crafting the fire, his Captain set to work making what little food they had left in their packs, and it was then that he confessed that he had never thought his job would be so difficult. It stopped all of them in their tracks, to hear a beacon of a man confess to struggling with the truth of what war entailed. He sounded like a hypocrite as he denounced the very thing that put money in his pocket. None of them disrupted him, however, and he confessed (sourly) that he had only joined the cadets as a child as had wanted to save everyone who suffered at the hands of evil. 

‘It was what my old man did, an’ I wanted to follow in his footsteps. He taught me everything I knew.’ He smiled at the thought of his father, all for his lips to curl downwards as he solemnly said, ‘but he never taught me that I couldn’t save everyone.’

Simon thought about that moment often, it springing to mind during their conversation with one another. To his words, Price was silent until he forced a laugh out of himself and said, ‘Don’t I know it.’ He shook his head, ‘wish I could, though. Really wish I could.’ 

The bottle of wine was set back in the centre of the table, though, the Captain made no effort to get up. Instead, he stayed. ‘When I first heard of the Nazi’s invasion of the Rhineland back in ’36, I was furious,’ he began, clearing his throat, ‘he waltzed right in there and took what they’d lost in Versailles — didn’t ask, didn’t so much as threat either, and what did we do? We sat on our arses and let it happen.’ His brows turned downwards and he sneered. ‘And then he just kept taking, and taking, and we did nothing. And you know, when Chamberlain got off that plane in ’38 and declared that there would be no war, I knew he was full of shit. I knew he didn’t have a fuckin’ clue what he was talkin’ about.’ 

It was in all the papers at home.

In fact, he had the newspapers on the desks of officers at the base, the declaration that the would be nothing but peace between all the nations. Even when he had seen them, he’d known better than to trust the judgement of a politician. Yes, he may have led the nation, but they didn’t know war. No; they understood words and only ever fought with them, never daring to pick up a rifle and resolve the conflict by fighting in it themselves. 

Rather, it was the burden of the common man — the flaws of the wealthy. 

‘None of this would’ve happened if we were allowed to stomp out the problem when we first noticed it.’ 

‘Nothing we can do about it now,’ said Simon with a sigh, drumming his fingers against the table. 

‘Doesn’t make it any easier.’ 

‘I know it doesn’t.’ 

They didn’t say much more to one another, mainly because they did not have the chance to for the growling of an engine outside caught the attention of the pair of them. In fact, it was so loud that the sleeping men behind him startled awake with a chortled snort.

The growling came to the stop with a squeal and clink. The voices which followed soon after were quiet, as though the intended on sneaking in without being caught, and they knew exactly what was beyond the doors of the barn when they heard one of the voices grunt out, ‘nein.’ 

‘Fuckin’ Jerry’s,’ said Johnny from behind him, ‘must be looting properties for supplies.’ 

‘What’s the call, Cap?’ asked Gaz.

Price rose to his feet, hand holding his pistol as he moved towards the door of the barn, peering through the crack. He turned back quickly, looking at all of the men. By that time, Simon had put his rucksack back on, holding the Mauser he had stolen. They could have left, crept out without alerting any of them, hell, he could have done that with ease.

Price, however, was anything but a coward. 

‘Get the family out of here,’ he said, ‘and kill every last one of the bastards.’ 

He wondered if the woman who had pleaded with him, the one who he had offered an apple slice which she had took so graciously, acting as though she had not been the reason he’d been allowed to eat, would be able to forgive him for dismissing her pleas and sending her back to the cottage. Granted, none of them had know what was awaiting them, unaware that the German’s were so close to them, although, they should have known they could not have existed without crossing paths with unruly evil. Still, he’d be damned if he were going to be responsible for the deaths of innocent people. 

They left the barn quickly, crouching in the hopes that the darkness would conceal any signs of them existing at all, hearing the voices of the men on the other side of the cottage.

The closer they got, the louder the voices of the enemy were.

Not a word of it made sense to his ears as there seemed to be one, nasally voice which pushed through all the rest of them. That must have been their lead: Captain, Officer, Lieutenant. Whatever he was, thought Simon, he was a smear of the ranks, a betrayer of goodness. It left him with an incurable sickness knowing that people were so willing to conform to the will of evil all for the sake acquiring a little power. 

No man. Only a boy would do something like that. 

The door to the cottage was forced open.

He recognised the sound of the door being kicked in, having done so on multiple occasions himself. There was no way the sound had not woken the occupants of the house, and the four men picked up their pace. The snarling of an animal and fierce barking echoed through the valley, followed by a whimper as a flash of light flooded the house.

Price directed them expertly, uttering to Simon that he and Johnny should take the front of the house, whilst him and Kyle would go in through the back. His request was met without argument as the two men wasted little time, rushing to the right of the house.

A face in the window, the same he had seen initially, caught his attention as himself and Johnny heard the squeak of hinges. To the left of him, a window was pried open. He saw you, the woman who had pleaded with him, holding your hand over the mouth of your sister who sobbed behind your hand.

The little girl looked upon the men with terror, hands firmly grasping the frame of the window as she shook her head. You looked to Simon and, just as you had done outside the barn, you said softly, ‘please.’ 

He stepped forward, taking the child into his arms, watching as your hand slipped from around her mouth. Her little body trembled in his hold, chest knocking into hers as she took frantic breaths, looking back for you. Johnny helped you climb out of the window, and when you had made it out, you closed it with a gentle hand.

There was shouting in the house, a mix of English and German swelling to form a bitter brawl, ending in the sound of a French plea and the pop of a gun shot, closely followed by another. Before the girl in his arms had the chance to scream at the sounds, you placed a hand firmly over her mouth whilst flinching at the sound of the gunshots yourself. 

‘We’ve got to get them out of here,’ said the Lieutenant. 

Johnny blinked in his direction, ‘what about—’

‘We won’t go too far,’ he reassured, ‘but they can’t stay here.’ 

MacTavish looked at you and your sister and then back to Simon. With a sigh, he nodded his head. Resting his hands against your shoulders, he said, ‘come.’ 

You stared at him and then back at the home that you had wished to leave, swallowing hard as you nodded at the man. ‘Oui, oui. Merci. Merci.’ 

The little girl in his hold continued to howl, the hand over her mouth keeping her from being too much of a threat. You walked between himself and his Sergeant, taking occasional looks back at your home as they pushed further through the fields of the farm.

Johnny had taken to holding his revolver, mumbling to you, in spite of their language barrier, how he was only carrying it ‘just in case.’

You, however, paid no mind to him as you looked at your sister. When they had made it far enough for their home to be quaint in the horizon, they stopped. 

Finally, you released her hold of the girls face. She cursed up a swarm, the only words he managed to capture from her blurting being the words ‘mama’ and ‘papa’.

You nodded as she cried, ultimately settling with shushing her, holding your arms out. Simon understood immediately, handing her back to you. You took hold of her gladly, wrapping your arms around her as though she was a baby, swaying side to side as you attempted to soothe her and her sorrow.

It was a compelling sight and your voice was so gentle, so careful. Whatever you spoke was pretty, and when you turned to face the moonlight, he noticed a slight sheen on your red cheek.

You yourself was miserable, terribly so, but you paid no mind to your sadness as you focused primarily on the child in your arms. Embarrassingly so, he couldn’t tear his eyes off the scene in front of him, paying more mind to the pair than his Sergeant who kept his eyes trained on the horizon. 

‘I’m still not seein’ anythin’, Lt.’ 

‘They’ll be here,’ said Simon, still looking at you. 

‘What are we gonna do about these two?’ 

‘Whatever we have to.’ 

They stayed longer than the muscle in his chest was content with for, with every passing second, the thudding in his ears seemed to worsen. The young girl seemed to settle a bit considering the circumstances as she rested her chin upon your shoulder, suckling on her thumb like she was a toddler.

He’d thought at first, she was too old to be doing that, again attempting to estimate how old she must have been. Had she been older than eight, he would have been surprised for she was quite small, better suited to be between the ages of five and seven.

In his train of thought, he stopped at the realisation that she was a child — a child who knew nothing of war, who had awoken to strangers in her home, and had no clue as to whether or not her mother and father were okay and he was judging her for attempting to find some semblance of comfort.

His judgement was soon cast away after that realisation and, when he turned his eyes to the horizon, he found two figures, holding more of a resemblance to shadows trudging over the hill.

Simon said to Johnny, ‘I’ll stay with the girls, go and find out who they are.’

His Sergeant, showing no fear whatsoever, took off, rushing down the slight hill they had climbed towards the two men, gun in hand. You turned to Simon, seemingly looking for answers. All he could offer you was a soft, ‘it’s okay.’  To that, you pressed your lips against the side of your sister’s head, continuing to cradle her in your arms. 

The lack of gunshots was telling that the men on the horizon were not the threat they could have been and, when he saw the third shadow of the Sergeant embracing the pair of them and the echoes of a short spout of laughter bouncing off the valley, he understood that the threats had been neutralised.

He waited for them, as did you and your young sister, your eyes casted upon the sight of them, only looking away when you heard the congested breathing of the Captain.

The grass beneath their feet as they rose up the incline crunched and snapped and their safe arrival was officially marked by the sound of Price blowing his nose into his handkerchief. 

‘What happened?’ Simon asked. 

‘Killed all of them,’ answered Garrick, ‘there were four of them.’ 

He hadn’t the opportunity to ask any more questions as you turned directly to Price, marching up to him, grasping his forearms with a vice-like grip, urgently rambling to him. You addressed him as  ‘Monsieur.’

The little girl lifted her head too, thumb still in her mouth as she looked to Price expectantly. For the first time in his life, Simon witnessed a look of apprehension on the face of his Captain, and it was only when you said, ‘please,’ that he dared to open his mouth.

What was said to you was unclear, he hadn’t the slightest clue until your hand slipped from off his arm to cover your mouth. 

The girl in your arms scream bloody murder. 

Escaping your hold, she seemed to wish to descend back to her home, quickly captured by Kyle who lifted her up off the ground.

She slammed her little hands into his shoulders as she wept, ‘NO! NO, NO, NO!’ 

As opposed to the outburst of rage from your younger sister, you stood and stared at the farm on the horizon. You didn’t blink, you didn’t speak, you kept your hand clasped over your mouth and stared.

It was an unnerving sight to behold, to have loss and grief conveyed without so much as a tear streaming down your bruising cheek.

Granted, maybe if it hadn’t been for the little girl screaming out, ‘MAMA, PAPA!’ He might have found it significantly harder to understand what had happened inside the cottage.

Kyle held the little girl, hand placed against the back of her head, her slapping growing sluggish as she fell victim to her grief, sobbing loudly. 

‘What happened?’ asked MacTavish. 

‘Both of them were shot before we had the chance to step in. The dog too,’ Price answered, looking at you who was still standing, staring at the home that had been ravished in the distance. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if there were more of them — we need to keep moving.’ 

‘What about the girls?’ 

‘We take them with her — she said they have family in Amiens, right?’ 

Your head lifted at the mention of Amiens. 

‘Yes,’ confirmed Simon. 

‘Then we’ll take them there.’ 

‘Right,’ said Johnny, ‘we needa keep movin’.’ 

‘That we do, Serg,’ said the Captain, yet, before daring to go anywhere, he approached the little girl in the arms of Sergeant Garrick.

Shrugging off his rucksack, he opened it and retrieved a small, plush rabbit. Shaking it in front of her, the toys ears flopped side to side and, as she snivelled, she took it gladly in her arms, burying her face into the top of its head.

‘Let's move out.’ 

[manicrouge]

I AM MERELY MAN (CH. 3)

CHAPTER THREE: SCREAMS IN THE SILENCE OF THE NIGHT

[SIMON RILEY X F!READER] - MASTERLIST - IAMM MASTERLIST - PLAYLIST

[ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴇᴍʏ ɪꜱ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴏʀꜱᴛᴇᴘ.

[ᴄᴡ]: ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ɴᴀᴢɪ ɢᴇʀᴍᴀɴʏ, ᴍɪɴᴏʀ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴏᴍᴇꜱᴛɪᴄ ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ, ᴘᴇᴛ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ

PRICE SOON RETURNED, the absence of you, the doe-eyed farm girl, notable to Simon as he hadn’t picked his pen up since returning, in spite of sitting in front of his journal.

His Captain closed the door to the barn, looking down at him and, rather than returning to his makeshift bed, he approached him, taking a seat at the opposite side of the table. He sat down with a grunt, pulling a rag out of his pocket, blowing his nose into it. Sniffing, he tucked it back into his pocket, wiping his hands against his pants and said, ‘she wanted to come with us.’

Simon blinked. ‘She’s been hit, hasn’t she?’ 

‘Unsurprising,’ Price said with a lighthearted shrug, ’her father was wound up enough talking to us. I can’t imagine he was exactly happy with his daughter robbing food off them to give it to us.’ 

To the man, it seemed to be a matter of fact, it was what she deserved, plainly put.

Well, not exactly; he knew his Captain would not be so careless to disregard the actions of the man, rather, in typical fashion for him, he sought to understand the old man as opposed to casting him out completely.

Retrieving the bottle of wine which had been left in the middle of the table, Price brought it to his mouth and took a swig. ‘He shouldn’t have hit her, though,’ he added, ‘she seemed beside herself, but it’ll only have been the heat of the moment because I know she’d regret leaving with us.’

‘She seemed adamant.’ 

‘She was,’ hummed the man, ‘and it kills ya, y’know? Having to look into the eyes of a young woman and tell her that she’s better off staying put when… well, I don’t know.’ 

‘When what?’ asked Simon.

‘When we’re gonna lose this place to the Nazi’s.’ 

It was the first time he’d spoken of their grim reality out loud, acknowledging the failure none of them had wished to touch. He’d known it since the call on the radio, that something was gravely wrong, and he was not wrong in his assessment of the situation.

They were running from the German’s, permitting them to engulf the entirety of France all because it was a battle they simply could not win. So what of the little farm they had sought refuge in? What of the little girl who had been playing so freely in the field when they first found the place and the family dog? Would she end up like the children they had encountered on the travels, the justification for the crime against her being scrawled in a note and left for the husband who had left the home, trusting to return to his loving with and little girls? Or would it be worse? Suddenly the desperation of the woman, although he knew she knew little, made sense.

Price drank from the bottle again. 

‘I wonder what the people ‘round here think of all this — do they even understand what trouble they’re in?’ 

‘Wouldn’t bet on it,’ said Simon, glancing at his journal. His fingers twitched, grasping his knee. He blew out a breath of air as though it was smoke from a cigarette. ‘But you can’t save everyone, Cap’n.’ 

War taught many lessons, in a harsh manner too.

And, out of all of them, he knew that his Captain struggled coming to terms with that. It hadn’t been too difficult to guess, although, he didn’t have to do that as he had said it to the group one night while they’d been camping outside in the woods.

It had been just a couple of days since they had stumbled across that house in the middle of nowhere when he had returned from his scavenge with a lump of sticks under his arm to craft a fire. Simon had volunteered to do so, taking the time to look around the wooded area they’d found themselves in. It was a stunning location, just by a small creek where they had filled their canteens and settled down for the night.

As he was crafting the fire, his Captain set to work making what little food they had left in their packs, and it was then that he confessed that he had never thought his job would be so difficult. It stopped all of them in their tracks, to hear a beacon of a man confess to struggling with the truth of what war entailed. He sounded like a hypocrite as he denounced the very thing that put money in his pocket. None of them disrupted him, however, and he confessed (sourly) that he had only joined the cadets as a child as had wanted to save everyone who suffered at the hands of evil. 

‘It was what my old man did, an’ I wanted to follow in his footsteps. He taught me everything I knew.’ He smiled at the thought of his father, all for his lips to curl downwards as he solemnly said, ‘but he never taught me that I couldn’t save everyone.’

Simon thought about that moment often, it springing to mind during their conversation with one another. To his words, Price was silent until he forced a laugh out of himself and said, ‘Don’t I know it.’ He shook his head, ‘wish I could, though. Really wish I could.’ 

The bottle of wine was set back in the centre of the table, though, the Captain made no effort to get up. Instead, he stayed. ‘When I first heard of the Nazi’s invasion of the Rhineland back in ’36, I was furious,’ he began, clearing his throat, ‘he waltzed right in there and took what they’d lost in Versailles — didn’t ask, didn’t so much as threat either, and what did we do? We sat on our arses and let it happen.’ His brows turned downwards and he sneered. ‘And then he just kept taking, and taking, and we did nothing. And you know, when Chamberlain got off that plane in ’38 and declared that there would be no war, I knew he was full of shit. I knew he didn’t have a fuckin’ clue what he was talkin’ about.’ 

It was in all the papers at home.

In fact, he had the newspapers on the desks of officers at the base, the declaration that the would be nothing but peace between all the nations. Even when he had seen them, he’d known better than to trust the judgement of a politician. Yes, he may have led the nation, but they didn’t know war. No; they understood words and only ever fought with them, never daring to pick up a rifle and resolve the conflict by fighting in it themselves. 

Rather, it was the burden of the common man — the flaws of the wealthy. 

‘None of this would’ve happened if we were allowed to stomp out the problem when we first noticed it.’ 

‘Nothing we can do about it now,’ said Simon with a sigh, drumming his fingers against the table. 

‘Doesn’t make it any easier.’ 

‘I know it doesn’t.’ 

They didn’t say much more to one another, mainly because they did not have the chance to for the growling of an engine outside caught the attention of the pair of them. In fact, it was so loud that the sleeping men behind him startled awake with a chortled snort.

The growling came to the stop with a squeal and clink. The voices which followed soon after were quiet, as though the intended on sneaking in without being caught, and they knew exactly what was beyond the doors of the barn when they heard one of the voices grunt out, ‘nein.’ 

‘Fuckin’ Jerry’s,’ said Johnny from behind him, ‘must be looting properties for supplies.’ 

‘What’s the call, Cap?’ asked Gaz.

Price rose to his feet, hand holding his pistol as he moved towards the door of the barn, peering through the crack. He turned back quickly, looking at all of the men. By that time, Simon had put his rucksack back on, holding the Mauser he had stolen. They could have left, crept out without alerting any of them, hell, he could have done that with ease.

Price, however, was anything but a coward. 

‘Get the family out of here,’ he said, ‘and kill every last one of the bastards.’ 

He wondered if the woman who had pleaded with him, the one who he had offered an apple slice which she had took so graciously, acting as though she had not been the reason he’d been allowed to eat, would be able to forgive him for dismissing her pleas and sending her back to the cottage. Granted, none of them had know what was awaiting them, unaware that the German’s were so close to them, although, they should have known they could not have existed without crossing paths with unruly evil. Still, he’d be damned if he were going to be responsible for the deaths of innocent people. 

They left the barn quickly, crouching in the hopes that the darkness would conceal any signs of them existing at all, hearing the voices of the men on the other side of the cottage.

The closer they got, the louder the voices of the enemy were.

Not a word of it made sense to his ears as there seemed to be one, nasally voice which pushed through all the rest of them. That must have been their lead: Captain, Officer, Lieutenant. Whatever he was, thought Simon, he was a smear of the ranks, a betrayer of goodness. It left him with an incurable sickness knowing that people were so willing to conform to the will of evil all for the sake acquiring a little power. 

No man. Only a boy would do something like that. 

The door to the cottage was forced open.

He recognised the sound of the door being kicked in, having done so on multiple occasions himself. There was no way the sound had not woken the occupants of the house, and the four men picked up their pace. The snarling of an animal and fierce barking echoed through the valley, followed by a whimper as a flash of light flooded the house.

Price directed them expertly, uttering to Simon that he and Johnny should take the front of the house, whilst him and Kyle would go in through the back. His request was met without argument as the two men wasted little time, rushing to the right of the house.

A face in the window, the same he had seen initially, caught his attention as himself and Johnny heard the squeak of hinges. To the left of him, a window was pried open. He saw you, the woman who had pleaded with him, holding your hand over the mouth of your sister who sobbed behind your hand.

The little girl looked upon the men with terror, hands firmly grasping the frame of the window as she shook her head. You looked to Simon and, just as you had done outside the barn, you said softly, ‘please.’ 

He stepped forward, taking the child into his arms, watching as your hand slipped from around her mouth. Her little body trembled in his hold, chest knocking into hers as she took frantic breaths, looking back for you. Johnny helped you climb out of the window, and when you had made it out, you closed it with a gentle hand.

There was shouting in the house, a mix of English and German swelling to form a bitter brawl, ending in the sound of a French plea and the pop of a gun shot, closely followed by another. Before the girl in his arms had the chance to scream at the sounds, you placed a hand firmly over her mouth whilst flinching at the sound of the gunshots yourself. 

‘We’ve got to get them out of here,’ said the Lieutenant. 

Johnny blinked in his direction, ‘what about—’

‘We won’t go too far,’ he reassured, ‘but they can’t stay here.’ 

MacTavish looked at you and your sister and then back to Simon. With a sigh, he nodded his head. Resting his hands against your shoulders, he said, ‘come.’ 

You stared at him and then back at the home that you had wished to leave, swallowing hard as you nodded at the man. ‘Oui, oui. Merci. Merci.’ 

The little girl in his hold continued to howl, the hand over her mouth keeping her from being too much of a threat. You walked between himself and his Sergeant, taking occasional looks back at your home as they pushed further through the fields of the farm.

Johnny had taken to holding his revolver, mumbling to you, in spite of their language barrier, how he was only carrying it ‘just in case.’

You, however, paid no mind to him as you looked at your sister. When they had made it far enough for their home to be quaint in the horizon, they stopped. 

Finally, you released her hold of the girls face. She cursed up a swarm, the only words he managed to capture from her blurting being the words ‘mama’ and ‘papa’.

You nodded as she cried, ultimately settling with shushing her, holding your arms out. Simon understood immediately, handing her back to you. You took hold of her gladly, wrapping your arms around her as though she was a baby, swaying side to side as you attempted to soothe her and her sorrow.

It was a compelling sight and your voice was so gentle, so careful. Whatever you spoke was pretty, and when you turned to face the moonlight, he noticed a slight sheen on your red cheek.

You yourself was miserable, terribly so, but you paid no mind to your sadness as you focused primarily on the child in your arms. Embarrassingly so, he couldn’t tear his eyes off the scene in front of him, paying more mind to the pair than his Sergeant who kept his eyes trained on the horizon. 

‘I’m still not seein’ anythin’, Lt.’ 

‘They’ll be here,’ said Simon, still looking at you. 

‘What are we gonna do about these two?’ 

‘Whatever we have to.’ 

They stayed longer than the muscle in his chest was content with for, with every passing second, the thudding in his ears seemed to worsen. The young girl seemed to settle a bit considering the circumstances as she rested her chin upon your shoulder, suckling on her thumb like she was a toddler.

He’d thought at first, she was too old to be doing that, again attempting to estimate how old she must have been. Had she been older than eight, he would have been surprised for she was quite small, better suited to be between the ages of five and seven.

In his train of thought, he stopped at the realisation that she was a child — a child who knew nothing of war, who had awoken to strangers in her home, and had no clue as to whether or not her mother and father were okay and he was judging her for attempting to find some semblance of comfort.

His judgement was soon cast away after that realisation and, when he turned his eyes to the horizon, he found two figures, holding more of a resemblance to shadows trudging over the hill.

Simon said to Johnny, ‘I’ll stay with the girls, go and find out who they are.’

His Sergeant, showing no fear whatsoever, took off, rushing down the slight hill they had climbed towards the two men, gun in hand. You turned to Simon, seemingly looking for answers. All he could offer you was a soft, ‘it’s okay.’  To that, you pressed your lips against the side of your sister’s head, continuing to cradle her in your arms. 

The lack of gunshots was telling that the men on the horizon were not the threat they could have been and, when he saw the third shadow of the Sergeant embracing the pair of them and the echoes of a short spout of laughter bouncing off the valley, he understood that the threats had been neutralised.

He waited for them, as did you and your young sister, your eyes casted upon the sight of them, only looking away when you heard the congested breathing of the Captain.

The grass beneath their feet as they rose up the incline crunched and snapped and their safe arrival was officially marked by the sound of Price blowing his nose into his handkerchief. 

‘What happened?’ Simon asked. 

‘Killed all of them,’ answered Garrick, ‘there were four of them.’ 

He hadn’t the opportunity to ask any more questions as you turned directly to Price, marching up to him, grasping his forearms with a vice-like grip, urgently rambling to him. You addressed him as  ‘Monsieur.’

The little girl lifted her head too, thumb still in her mouth as she looked to Price expectantly. For the first time in his life, Simon witnessed a look of apprehension on the face of his Captain, and it was only when you said, ‘please,’ that he dared to open his mouth.

What was said to you was unclear, he hadn’t the slightest clue until your hand slipped from off his arm to cover your mouth. 

The girl in your arms scream bloody murder. 

Escaping your hold, she seemed to wish to descend back to her home, quickly captured by Kyle who lifted her up off the ground.

She slammed her little hands into his shoulders as she wept, ‘NO! NO, NO, NO!’ 

As opposed to the outburst of rage from your younger sister, you stood and stared at the farm on the horizon. You didn’t blink, you didn’t speak, you kept your hand clasped over your mouth and stared.

It was an unnerving sight to behold, to have loss and grief conveyed without so much as a tear streaming down your bruising cheek.

Granted, maybe if it hadn’t been for the little girl screaming out, ‘MAMA, PAPA!’ He might have found it significantly harder to understand what had happened inside the cottage.

Kyle held the little girl, hand placed against the back of her head, her slapping growing sluggish as she fell victim to her grief, sobbing loudly. 

‘What happened?’ asked MacTavish. 

‘Both of them were shot before we had the chance to step in. The dog too,’ Price answered, looking at you who was still standing, staring at the home that had been ravished in the distance. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if there were more of them — we need to keep moving.’ 

‘What about the girls?’ 

‘We take them with her — she said they have family in Amiens, right?’ 

Your head lifted at the mention of Amiens. 

‘Yes,’ confirmed Simon. 

‘Then we’ll take them there.’ 

‘Right,’ said Johnny, ‘we needa keep movin’.’ 

‘That we do, Serg,’ said the Captain, yet, before daring to go anywhere, he approached the little girl in the arms of Sergeant Garrick.

Shrugging off his rucksack, he opened it and retrieved a small, plush rabbit. Shaking it in front of her, the toys ears flopped side to side and, as she snivelled, she took it gladly in her arms, burying her face into the top of its head.

‘Let's move out.’ 

[manicrouge]

An Ode to Serelia

[𝟷𝟾+, 𝙼𝙳𝙽𝙸] || Part Two

[𝙰𝚕𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚄𝚗𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎: 𝙶𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚍!𝚂𝚒𝚖𝚘𝚗 𝚁𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚢 𝚡 𝚂𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚗!𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛]

[𝙳𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝙿𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍]: 01/01/24

[𝙰𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝]: Displeased is the siren who weeps, a sister stolen leading to her finding the man who helps her to her feet.

[𝙲𝚠]: blood, graphic violence, torture, gore, body horror, violence, character death, murder, loss of a parent, angst, mention of suicidal thoughts, smut, loss of virginity, creampie, inexperienced!reader, possessive!Simon

[𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝]: 23,720

𝙿𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 If you're intrigued in the music I listened to writing, there's a link to the spotify playlist, enjoy !!

[𝙰/𝙽]: HIIII !! This is the story I mentioned the other day on my blog, it's here, it's written (hopefully to a decent standard) and it was a lot of fun to write and I hope you have fun reading it !! Also I did change up the appearences of sirens a little for the sake of being #unique and #different. Greek mythologies version would have been interesting, though I'm unsure how exactly a bird with the head of a woman would translate into a cod fanfiction so please forgive my creative liberties.

Also, there may be the possibility for a part two cause I have an idea if you would like that pls let me know!!

Comments are always appreciated, please let me know what you think... unless you think it's the worst thing you've ever read, then tell me, but in a nicer way pls, i.e. 'bless you, you tried' or 'hmmm, I've read better, good try though!'

(I'm very sensitive).

HAVE FUN!!

P.s. Rhymezone and me were besties while i was writing this. Also I figured out how to make the text tiny... I'm learning guys!!! And sorry for it being so long, tumblr was literally lagging near the end of writing this whoops.

Also!!! Share any request you have for me in my 'Ask me anything'!! I'd be happy to write more alt aus with different characters :))

Please don't post my work anywhere else without my permission !!

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Illuminated in the night, entranced by the tide, the sailors always come to you, such a mistake they make, too little too late, for they can never ever run. Foolish mortal men, sinking into the watery depths of a sirens den, for a woman in the sea is never just a friend.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

In the dead of night, you awake to a glow. It's seemingly stretching out its arms, calling out to you.

The orange light bends and warps with the movement of the sea, the rolling waves and glaring light for the moon creating a mixture of light which creates a celestial shimmer on the scales on your tail, reflecting off of your black eyes as you turn your head up in its direction.

The muscle in your chest is pounding, muffled words running through your ears as you keep your eyes trained on the light pushing its way from the shore all to make its way to you.

A full moon is never a good thing, although, submerged in the depths of the sea, you find it difficult to make out the shape of the glowing orb in the sky.

Her light confirms your worst fear, though, your eyes struggle to make anything out.

Even at night, the coral surrounding your bed is sleeping, nature reserving its strength for another troublesome day of battling against the grubby hands of the legged folk who rule both land and sea with an iron fist.

'Don't go meddling with the folks of the land, my dear, for trouble is the only thing ye shall find.'

It's the lesson of your mother which courses through your mind, like a shock of adrenaline through the body, a dopamine which has your hands trembling while sitting in quiet contemplation.

Land folk are dangerous, maniacs who believe they can possess the land and all that walks upon it.

To own the world, you would have to be mother nature herself, even then, her presence is discounted for because one of the land folk has in abundance what she lacks: golden coins.

You're familiar with these things, these little circular items they carry on their being, sometimes in small leather pouches, recalling a few of them being in the pockets of silly sailors who though they had the right to the place you and your sisters called home.

During their time spent, they toyed with the land as though she herself can not feel, taking and taking, so much so, you feared your initial silence to their actions would have resulted in you being damned for an eternity.

They massacred most of the fish, took your food as though it was theirs to take, discounting the creatures in the surrounding water. Greedy were the city folk, both of these golden things and your food, so, you followed the rule your mother had introduced.

Holding you on her lap, she looked at you and your delicate little frame, placing her hand against the wound on your tail.

Blood drifted in the the water, swirling with the current of the water and you sniffled in your mothers lap.

How terrible the wound was, throbbing as she plucked seaweed from out of the ground, using it to cover the cut.

The wound had been the fault of the land folk; they mistook you for a fish you supposed, though your little mind really didn't care to stop and acknowledge the truth of what happened.

The hook they had caught your tail with sat beside your mother and as she picked it up, she held it before you, watching as your eyes grew wide, nearly bulging from out of your little head as you began to squirm on her lap. What a monstrous little thing that contraption was, causing such hurt when it was the size of seashell. Keeping it in your view, she shushed you, opening her mouth, showing you her pointed teeth as she cupped your face with her other hand.

'My poor Urchin,' she lamented, 'it can do no harm now; it's not in the hands of the city folk, it's in mine,' she soothed, yet, despite her words you found that your throat was clogged as you recalled the morphed faces of the men who had caught sight of you when you had been caught.

'Is it because we hurt the bad people that they're doing this to the ocean?' you quietly asked, choking out your words as the gills either side of your neck opened.

It felt as though the hook had been stuck in your throat, ripping the insides as you struggled to the words out while sitting on your mothers lap. 'Are we bad people, mama?'

'No dear, we protect the sea and do the job the Lord made for us, it is the folks on her back who are the bad people, we're submerged in her soul, you see, keeping her from harms way and the cruel games of the true beasts,' she firmly stated, 'we hide from the enemy, covered in the current of what gives life to take the lives of those who are much too greedy for this world,' she lectures, 'so you mustn't pity the land folk; if they stray too far from their home and into yours, it is your duty to keep them away.'

'Even if we hurt them?'

'A lesson taught, is a warning sent, my dear,' she sweetly said, 'for a thieves broken neck is easy to repent.'

You acted that day as your mother had intended all those years ago: cruel, brutal, and unforgiving.

By the time you had finished, the water surrounding you was branded with their blood.

You gasped and choked, spitting out chunks of sailor from out of your teeth, plucking chunks of their cotton shirt out of your mouth the remains of a fish bone; it was far too stuck for you to use your nails, no matter how sharp they are.

You cleaned your teeth, watching as the bodies with their organs descended to the bed of the ocean with their gold coins in your hands while their pockets were filled with stones.

It was payment for their crimes and in death, they paid you to keep their bodies down, away from their families, for, you thought of the children on the coast.

They very well may be human, but they are undeserving of seeing one of their own in such a way.

You felt little when as you watched them sink, and upon reflection, all you ever feel is remorse for your silence.

Had you acted sooner, well, you suppose it would have saved you a trip to the deeper part of the ocean when hunting for food.

In the midst of your exhaustion you find your thoughts again, realising in your moment of contemplation, the little light grew closer to the edge of the coast.

Placing your hands against rocks, you push yourself from out of your reserved mellow cove, cocking your head to the side as you reach your hand outwards toward an orange fleck of light which greets you with open arm.

Exiting the cave, a flurry of bubbles pour pass your lips as their chants grow louder, as though they too are underwater.

Your pointed ears twitch as you push forwards through the water.

Your eyes are heavy as you push through the water, growing closer and closer to the source of the light, the sudden shift in the brightness causing them to sting.

You keep your eyes on the mysterious glow, rubbing your face with your hand, the long nail on your pointer finger catching the edge of your lip. Hissing, you watch as a faint trail of rouge seeps from your mouth, pressing the tips of your finger into the wound. Still, your eyes are unmoving, much too interested in the glowing beyond on the water.

Then, you hear voices.

It's the voice of humans, their low grumbles, cheers and chants causing the water surrounding you to vibrate from their ferocious tongues.

'I found one papa!'

Shifting, you turn your head towards the surface.

Whatever they have found is not for their hands, you sure of that much, and your stomach grows weary.

Oh, what catastrophe are they going to muster tonight? What are they going to use for sacrifice?

Your throat begins to knot, its as though someone is pressing their hands around the gills on you neck as your mind races.

One by the ocean is one of your own. Who else would have landed up on the shore? But it can't be, no it mustn't be; they're smarter than that.

No one else is awake at this hour, you have the consciousness of only yourself and the land folk.

Why would an Urchin be so far out that the spliced fingers of man could get to her?

No, they're in their caves, keeping their ears out for the horn of a ship, or perhaps the merry song of a sailor.

As you break the surface of the water, the waves of the ocean brush against your head, rain pouring from out of the sky, The breeze against your skin rendering you breathless.

You're guilty of feeling a crude interest take hold of you as you peer towards the sure, before ultimately deciding to succumb to temptation, following through your curiosity in the hopes to find what has caused such a disturbance.

It's difficult to see, your eyes are trained for the sea, you have little experience on land and the light above is much harsher than the gentle streams beneath the surface.

As you push forward, keeping most of your body underwater, your ears are greeted with more howling.

Their's excitement seeping from off of their tongues, they're bemused with their discovery.

Perhaps it's one of their rituals; you've found, through the time you have been watching them, they're terribly fond of the sacrifice of their own. Their disregard for the very thing they grew from is disheartening, a reflection of their characters.

Their form of sacrifice is truly despicable, against the order of nature, but they do not care for their own. One could be starving at a table full of food, the very table they set, yet, forbidden from touching a single thing all because of another's self importance.

Yet, it is you and your kind who are the monsters.

It's at times like this you long for your mother.

But, with the rain battering the backs of the humans as they form a circle around their special find, you find both her absence and the shyness of the moon leaves crude goosebumps covering your body as you shift in the water.

'MONSTERS,' a silk tone calls as you grow closer and closer, yet, you are forced to stop; the tide is upset, the moon displeased at such a display of savagery.

The thing in your chest stops, your webbed hands forming fists as you crane your neck forward.

'Monsters you are! Let me go,' the voice cracks as more cheering ensues.

'Cover her mouth,' demands one, 'keep her from singing her murderous song; her voice is as sweet as honeysuckle and it is her barbed tongue which has taken our brothers from us, and we will not let it take us! This is for the men we have lost to the creatures of the sea!'

You watch as the waves grow stronger, the rain landing with a slosh against the sea.

It's difficult to keep yourself in one place, both the fire in your chest and the shoving formation of the water urging you to go forward. You know her tone, though it is shredded and brutal as she speaks, unlike the sweet songs you savour.

Serelia.

'No!' she screams, ripping her vocal cords as you see a webbed hand appear from the circle of bodies, blood dripping from down a wound you spy on her shoulder.

Gripping the sand on the shore, the waves from the water brushing against the tips of her fingers and you feel the crashing body of water forcing you forward.

'Please, we would do no harm if you did none to—'

Opening your mouth, you will a tune to escape you, to pull them away from her to give her time to return to her home. Only, your much too choked up as water floods your mouth, the foul weather proving to work in mans favour.

Pushing yourself further up, you open your mouth, letting out a ghastly wrench as a sudden flood of coldness fills your veins, pulling at your tongue, keeping it pressed against the bottom of your mouth. Your lips quiver from the temperature as you attempt to pry a tune from out of your clogged up mouth.

'I- Illuminated—' you swallow another mouthful of water.

Her hand disappears.

You watch as a hand grabs her wrist, hearing her squeal and scream.

The circle of bodies disperses as you see the ends of her tail held in the forearms of a man.

There's a fire in your eyes, a fire enough to leave the sea bloody as your scaled skin and blackened eyes catch a patch of red staining the sand.

The sea betrays you as it sweeps up, carrying away grains of the red sand as the land folk hold their torches up in celebration as blood drips down onto the sand, the ruined blue scales of your sister turning purple in the light of the moon with the mixture of blood which pours from her wounds.

You watch in horror, hands slapping against the water as you look towards the moon nestled in the sky, peering down at you.

In the light of Luna, you recall her face.

Her innocent little face, doe eyes, cheery grin, how her nose would crinkle at the slightest accusation whenever she had done something particularly troublesome. The colour of her tail, how she looked when she sat upon the rocks singing her merry songs for the passersby to listen to.

A gift for the men she was, a gift spoiled by their grubby, wretched hands.

A sister as such spoke with a silk tongue, cohesive, one of your most prized possessions. A chest of jewels from horrid humans simply never compared to the life of one of your own, nothing.

Not even their dastardly golden coins.

Your head grows light as you keep your eyes trained on the humans marching forward, the light from the sticks they carry in their hands growing weary in the distance as the wind grows stronger. It's all too much, the sight of one of your own, the knot in your throat keeps you from gulping down necessary gulps of air. You feel nauseous, an icy chill freezing the blood in your veins.

Sinking back to the depths, your hand is forced and you're kept away from the dreary sight as the current drags you back under.

In the warped complexion of the surface, you see the moon still staring at you and you bark out in fury, 'you backstabber,' you roar, 'I saw my mother in you and you have betrayed our own for keeping you safe,' you continue onwards in your fury, your face contorting as you point up towards the surface.

'She has done nothing, as innocent as an Urchin can be, and you take her? Why not me?'

The current grows displeased.

'We give our lives, all our lives... my mothers,' you heave, placing a hand against your chest, 'I know not the secrets of the land, I don't possess the means to go upon the surface, how- how do we get her back? Why? Why would you take her and not me?' you choke out.

She shifts in colour, you spy her eyes growing red as you look upwards at her. 'She does not deserve to be a part of their game, neither did my mother,' you cry, 'take me, I'm offering myself up, leave her—'

There's a pull in the current, the rolling waves above the surface plunging downwards with a spiralling head.

You meet the eye of the storm, bubbles escaping your mouth as you bring your hands to cover your face. It hooks you, pulling you into as a ton of water comes crashing down into the small pocket of air you have become trapped in.

The last thing you catch before you're senses are flooded with darkness is the red glint in Luna's eye before you descend into the abyss.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ☾ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

It's with the crude calls of village folk that he leaves his post.

There have been some form of disturbance for the past couple of nights, and after the first ending him standing on the shore of the town, his eyes being battered with the wind and sea, he found he has little interest in part-taking in the games of the fools. Fortunately, as he raises from his post, peering from out the window, he hears a shift behind him.

His eyes are unmoved by the chaos beyond the warning, his lids only lifting when he catches a child rushing ahead of the crowd of people.

His words are lost in the hollers of the crowd, though, he bounces with such excitement, the type that can only be likened to when a child gets money for chocolate, or even a new toy.

Only, he's acting as though he has won the biggest and best chocolate bar, his little head bobbing as he bounds down the cobble streets, his hand wrapping firmly around an elder mans wrist, tugging him along eagerly.

From behind him, he hears the scrape of a chair and a weary sigh. 'Another call for me? Swear, they cause mischief in the dark they do,' he comments with a hearty chuckle.

Turning away from the window, the red glow from the fire on the end of their torches lights emits an orange light in the room, though, the man before him is covered as stray arms of light stretch beyond his bulky frame, merely able to catch even the side of the man with a mohawk's face.

'Has Price told y' what they're up to? It's been every fuckin' night for weeks straight,' he asks, tugging down the edge of his mask, tilting his neck either side, a crude snap emitting as he does so.

The man standing in front of him offers him a toothy grin, crossing his arms over his chest with a short nod. Muscles bulge against the white cotton clinging to his frame and he readies himself by undoing the buttons on the cuffs of his shirt, pushing the sleeves to the crease of his forearms.

'Apparently, they're lookin' for merfolk or somethin', y'know what Captains like, doesn't 'ave the time for stupid shit like this,' he explains, 'read too many fuckin' fairytales if y' ask me. Couple ships disappear off of the coast and they believe a fuckin' fish did it?' He breaks out into a spell of roaring laughter. 'They call 'em sirens.'

'Sirens?'

'Aye,' nods the slightly shorter man, rubbing the stubble on his face with his hand. 'Sirens,' he adds, 'lore men to their deaths with their songs they do, supposedly, prettier than any lass on the land... sounds like a story written by a man, eh? Beautiful bonnie's with a good throat on em', paradise if y' ask me,' he proceeds to laugh even harder at his own joke, kneeling over as he does so.

It takes a brief moment for him to realise the masked man standing before him is unmoved by his comments.

Awkwardly, he comes to a sudden stop as he peers up at the man, slowly adjusting his posture, using his hands against his knees to steady himself as he notes the red lights behind him have disappeared.

'Suppose I should go and fetch them back,' he quietly grumbles, 'keep an ear out though, won't ya, Ghostie? Needa make sure they don't try n' sacrifice me to the sirens!'

'Affirmative,' he says briefly, turning his attention away from him, listening to his footsteps against the floorboards as he tucks his gloved hands into his pockets. 'Johnny,' he calls out.

The footsteps stop.

'Doesn't count if I find out y' went into the water to find them yourself,' he warns, looking over as the man nods his head, 'I'll drag you back in and sacrifice y' myself.'

'Gonna take more to get rid of me than that, Lt,' he answers, pushing the door open, 'throw a pint of ale in the sea, an' maybe, just maybe you'd get what y' want,' he laughs, walking out of the door with his hand pressing on the handle of the sword sitting at his waist.

The taller man stands and watches as he disappears into the dead of night, shaking his head in his direction.

'Fuckin' hell,' he grumbles to himself before turning his attention back to the chair he'd perched himself upon, grabbing the dagger he had set down onto the table, grabbing the cloth sitting beside it before kicking his feet back up onto the table, watching as Johnny disappears past the window, heading towards the crowd of chaos.

Turning his attention back to the dagger, he eyes himself in the refection, noting the redness of his eyes before rubbing the cloth over its smudge surface. 'Lost their fuckin' mind, can never excuse shit in a reasonable,' he grumbles to himself, 'better chance of Price quitin' smoking than there is the chance of fuckin' sirens,' he continues on, lifting his head when the candle perched on his desk flickers.

'Bloody lunatics.'

As he sat in the silence of the station, he finds his mind wandering. It's unusual for his mind to ever really escape him, although, with the sight of that little boy jumping up and down in such a manner he finds it difficult to shake a niggling feeling which is poking and prodding at his temple.

His excitement was evident, that much was obvious the longer he focuses on the memory.

If such is the case, if there is truly something behind the little boys excitement, he's there, sitting on his ass, doing absolutely nothing while the man is left to deal with everything to come from whatever has been found. There's something different about the tone of the people, he sees it well.

Terror trickles in, one head at a time, passing by the window in a manic flurry.

At first, he doesn't notice, far too interested in the blade he'd pulled from the sheathe resting on his belt to see the chaos unfolding beyond the window of the station. Their words a muffled, and they seem distant as he eyes the popped blood vessels in the white of his eyes. Moving the metal closer to his masked face, he narrows his eyes, rubbing the cloth over the blade again.

The door bursts open, and while unnerved, outwardly he remains still, snapping his head around.

The man who had left no more than fifteen minutes ago is back, his face wind swept and pale as he heaves out heavy breaths, keeping his arm firmly against the door.

His white shirt is soaked through to the skin, the pinkness of his flesh peeking out from under the fabric, his calf high boots marked with wet sand, crunching as he steps a single foot into the Station, not daring to take one more.

It's easy to read his face, though he finds his brow creasing as he realises that the very look on his face is fear.

Immediately he stands up from his seat, the flame of the candle beside him flickering as he does so. Tossing the cloth onto the table, he sheathes his knife, grabbing his coat from off of the back of his chair, throwing it over his shoulders.

'What?' he asks, 'a fight break out or somethin'? Look like you've seen a ghost,' he breaths.

Johnny doesn't offer him a response for a moment, only looking up towards him with wide eyes, unable to pick his jaw up from off of the ground.

'Fucks sake, Johnny, what—'

'Siren,' he says quietly.

It's difficult to catch what he says with the rain hitting the window and street beyond the office. His lips curve into a crooked smile beneath his mask as he shakes his head.

Sirens? Is he fucking stupid?

The expression on his face doesn't change, even when he hears the small laugh escaping the confines of his mask.

'A lass was on the shore n' she has a fuckin' tail!' he exclaims, pushing himself up after catching his breath, 'tail blue as the sea, eyes black as the void... they bloody exist.'

'And where is she now? She go back into the water to swim off with her friends, hm?' he asks, 'ride away on the back of a horse with a horn on its forehead and wings too?' he scoffs, shrugging his jacket off, only for a hand to reach out, grabbing his forearm.

'Still on the beach.'

'The beach?'

'Aye.' he says, 'ran as fast as I could, woke Price 'n Kyle up, 'told them they had to get to the beach quick. If they keep hold of her, they're gonna kill her- she's a bloody mess, cryin' and screamin'.'

He pinches himself to make sure he's still awake while staring at the soaked man. In no way can he find a single thought in his mind at this moment to make anything make sense.

In fact, he feels a prickling heat flooding his flesh the longer he stands and processes what has just been relayed to him.

They're real, they're real and they have found one.

Despite the implications, it's difficult for him to miss the worry in his tone, and while what they deem to be a monster has just appeared off the coast of Lakekeep, he's still worrying about its safety.

'We have to go, they're gonna kill 'er, Ghost.'

Fixing his coat, he looks down at the dagger resting at his hip, giving a short nod as the man lets go of his arm.

'Price and Gaz followin' along?' he asks.

'Aye, didn't believe me at first,' confesses the man with a short laugh, 'still can't believe it meself and I've seen it with my own eyes,' he says, stepping back out into the rain.

Ghost follows after him, slamming the door of the Station shut as the head down the cobbled path, their boots splashing in the puddles forming in the tight streets as the rain hits the ground harder.

Their chants carry through the village, washing over the usual silence like a tidal wave, flooding his senses with cries and pleads.

As they edge closer, he can hardly believe it as a woman's voice bellows out, 'MONSTERS!'

It's brittle and broken the way she cries, and oddly, he feels that the voice tugs at his heartstrings.

'Mustn't listen to her speak, Lt,' he says, 'what they said is true, apparently the boy found her on the shore and when he approached her, he heard her hummin' a tune- said it had him in a trance,' Johnny says, looking to him.

'Monsters you are! Let me go!'

Stepping down off of the stone steps, the pair of the pursued the scene, hearing stray voices fall from out of the crowd, demanding that her mouth be covered in order for them to fulfil some form of revenge. Watching on, he catches the appearance of a bloody webbed hand poking out from the crowd, landing against the shore with a wet slap.

It's as though she's reaching out for something.

Following the line of her forearm, he watches as the sea climbs up the shore, touching the tips of her fingers as she continues to scream and cry.

Moving his attention from off of the beach, he looks to the water, eyeing the crashing waves as the wind sweeps the fabric of his long black coat to the side. The water is restless, and with the rain pouring from the black sky, it's difficult to make much out that isn't just raging water.

Although, in the glow of the torches which whip and wind in the wind, the light covers a fair distance beyond land, and he spots something in the water. In the darkness, it's difficult to make out more than a silhouette of what appears to be a human head. Only, after another crashing wave, he catches sight of pointed ears either side of the head.

Something is watching them, yet no one sees it.

'No!'

The scream from the centre of the crowd rips him out from his trance as he turns his head, following after Johnny.

'Please, we would do no harm if you did none to us. Please, let me go!' she screams with all her might, her voice piercing to the ears of everyone in the surrounding area.

The crowd dips as they shift, covering their ears with a harsh wince.

Finally, she's unveiled to him.

A gash in her head is pouring blood down her bare breasts as she fights and writhes against the hold of the hold of the men who keep her captive. Her ginger hair is matted and covered with the blood and sand, as is the rest of her body.

The slits on the side of her neck, similar to the ones on a fishes body open and close as she lets out muffled cries.

His eyes trail further down her battered body, the sight of a blue tail stained with blood greeting his gaze. In the light, it appears almost purple as the blood mixes with the shimmer of her scales.

Screwing her eyes shut, she fights with all the fury in her being, and as he watches her, he feels the same heat he felt at the station creeping back onto him, and despite the harshness of the weather, the warmth beaming from his skin is enough to keep him from shivering.

'Alright, move out of the fuckin' way!'

It's the voice of his Captain bursting through the chaos of the surrounding area.

Turning to look over his shoulders, he catches sight of Price and Gaz walking down the beach, and with ease, Price holds his hands up, his words catching the attention of the the booming crowd.

Silence falls upon them, the sirens cries mixing with the crashing sound of the ocean. The man moves past both himself and Johnny, Gaz standing between the pair of them as he parts the crowd with an astonishing ease.

The gasp that passes his lips when making it to the centre is enough to make even his blood run cold.

There's a moment of silence, the sound of the torches whipping against the wind as he keeps his eyes trained on the back of his Captains head.

Clearly, the cogs are turning, expecting what Johnny had told him to be that of a stupid joke, only, it isn't.

It's real and it's squirming around on the ground, staring Price right in the eyes.

'She's a murderer!' a voice shouts from the crowd, 'her and her people, she said it herself,' the continue on, fury carrying their tone past the cries of the woman on the ground.

Price continues to look at her, and as he looks over his shoulder, catching his eye, he turns back to the woman on the ground.

'Take her in,' he says with a firm nod, 'we'll put her in a cell in the Station for now, figure out what to do with her later,' he continues, looking at the two men who held her arms, 'carry her back to the Station,' he rules, resting his hands on his hips as he observes all the other faces in the crowd, 'as for the rest of y', funs over for tonight, get back home,' he demands.

'We'll take it from here. '

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ☾ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

You awake with a brittle moan.

Your mouth is full of send, a dull ache radiating from your chin as your forehead creases when you look ahead of yourself. You teeth bite down on the sand in your mouth, a disgusting crunch causing you to wince.

Memories are stubborn, not wanting to come back to you, only allowing you to recall the sight of blood on the beach and the crashing waves around you.

With a grunt, you attempt to push yourself up off of the ground, a grunt escaping you as your breasts push against the sand. Tearing your eyes from off of the beach in front of you, you shiver as you feel the water wash up, brushing against your limbs.

Looking to your hands, a startled gasp escapes you as you hold one out in front of your face. No longer are they webbed, no, instead, your fingers are separated. Curling your hand around the dark sand before you, you clench it in your fists, watching as it poured past it. Your hips ache as you shift, placing your cheek back against the sand.

Your head is spinning, you can't think of a single thing aside from the fact that your mouth is dry, horrifically dry.

You muster up what little spit you can, expelling grains of sand as the spit clings the your bottom lip, dribbling down the side of your mouth.

The water moves further up, and as you go to move your tail, you're startled by the sound of footsteps on the beach beside you, only, you're too tired to even check who it is.

I've failed as a sister, so if I must go out like this, then I will.

'Ma'am! Oh fuck, ma'am, are you okay?'

The tone is light, different to what you expected to hear counting you have washed up onto the very same coast you had seen Serelia on the night before... if it was even the same day as her disappearance, that is.

The sand crunches beside you as a shadow looms over you, keeping you from the brutal beams of the sun, a hand pressing against your shoulder.

Picking your head up, you muster out a pained whimper as you look at the man in front of you. Concern is etched on his brow as he stares down at you, shrugging off a piece of clothing, resting it against your shoulders.

Your eyes are narrow as you keep your eyes trained on him, unable to look anywhere else as he carefully places his hand against your cheek.

'Can you tell me your name?' he gently asks.

You swallow hard, your chapped and cracked lips pressing together.

Your eyes grow heavy.

You hear another curse under his breath as exhaustion rattles your body. Your head falls heavy and his hold on you slips away, gently placing your head back against the ground. You hope he leaves you be, allows the sea to swallow you whole so you can be with your own once again.

Two firm hands press against your shoulders, gently guiding so you're lying on your back.

His shadow keeps the sun from you once again as he scoops you up into his arms, keeping a firm grip around your shoulders and tail. his hand slips slightly as he uses his jacket to cover your breasts, and you shift when you feel his hand move lower, being extra cautious to cover up your tail.

His breathing is rough as he rushes up the beach with you in his arms, every step causing you to shift or hiss.

'Sorry, love,' he softly apologises, pulling you closer. You note how his pace slows upon him noticing the pain he's causing you by running, 'do you know where we are?' he asks, looking down at you.

Cracking your eyes open, the back of your neck burns as you attempt to look back at him. Poking your tongue past your lips, sand scrapes against the back of your throat as you open your mouth, all for a hoarse croak to escape your lips.

'Have to get you somethin' to drink,' he says firmly, 'you're okay now, love, I promise,' he reassures, pulling you closer to him.

You muster up a short 'hm', resting your head against his chest, listening to the little muscle in it thumping as he heads up the stairs, taking your further away from the beach.

The pair of you remain in silence and you hear the passing giggles and whispers of passersby as he keeps you against him.

You're unsure of what they're saying, though you're sure they're most likely laughing at your tail.

It's surprising hearing such a humorous reaction from them, figuring they would respond in a similar manner to how they did when you had heard Serelia screaming on the shore.

Mustering up a grunt, you flinch as your body is lightly pressed into a door. It squeals as it opens, and the very first thing you hear is a booming voice. It causes the dull ache in your head to worsen as you flinch.

'Am tellin' ye, it's straight out of a fuckin' fairytale it is,' booms the voice, 'can y'—'

There's silence.

Your eyes crack open as you observe the room you're in.

It's different to home, there's a rich smell, similar to the smoke from the lights on the beach.

'Found her on the beach,' confesses the man holding you, 'Johnny, go get some water, please,' he asks, 'she's got a mouthful of sand, she can hardly speak.'

There's a short answer, you can't quite hear it, as he moves you further into the room, setting you down.

Your damp hair hits the plush fabric of a pillow and something is pulled over your body. It's light, harmless.

'Where was she?' asks an unfamiliar voice. It's low, his accent is thick and as you turn your head to the side, you note the man has a thick brown beard, his hair quite short. Stepping towards you, he rests his large hand on your forehead. 'She's burning up.'

'She was near the same spot as last night where that... siren was,' he says.

It's as though life is breathed into you as you quickly sit up, ignoring the dizziness wrecking your mind. The man quickly pulls his hand from off of your forehead, moving it to your shoulder. 'Calm down, love,' he gently instructs, looking to the man standing beside you, 'you reckon she was attacked by it?'

'Could have been; she seems shaken,' he confirms.

Confusion hits you as you lift your tail, only to find that is has vanished.

As you lift your legs, a distraught gasp escapes you as you catch sight of legs.

Two legs- the same as the three men in the room have.

Quickly, you slap your hands to the side of your ears, your chest heaving as you realise your ears have shrunk, resembling that of the legged folk. Everything seems to come tumbling down in front of you, your head pounding as your eyes begin to sting.

'Hey, hey, you're fine,' hushes the man who found you on the beach. The door opens again and a cup of water is handed to him. Taking a seat beside on the bed beside you, he brings to the cup to your mouth. 'Have a drink,' he instructs.

You want to tell him no, to demand to know what they have done to her, yet, you know you can't do anything until you have something to drink.

So, you press your dry lips against the rim of the cup, allowing him to pour it into your mouth. The feeling is euphoric, unlike any sensation you've ever dreamt of, and you eagerly swallow down mouthful after mouthful of water, taking the cup in your own hands.

You're aware of the eyes on you, but you don't care, drinking from the cup until it is empty. With heaving breaths, your wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, keeping tight hold of the cup.

A hand settles against your knee, and as you look back up, the man who was sitting in the corner is now standing behind the two closest to the bed. You note the man who brought you water has an odd haircut, while the much taller man's face is completely covered aside from his eyes.

It's strange, the fabric of a thick hood pulled over is head, his eyes peering through the holes of a skull.

Is that real?

'Sorry, sweetheart, I didn't mean to upset you,' says the brown-haired man, squeezing your bare shoulder.

You look at him with your lips pressed together, bringing the cup closer to you as you swallow hard.

Despite his caring words, you find yourself unable to open your mouth- unable to trust him. He's going to hurt you if he finds out what you are, then what? You're forever bound to their land?

'What's the last thing you can remember before you washed up on shore?' he asks.

You look at him with beady eyes, and the man with his hand on your knee pats you gently, 'you're safe here, we're not gonna hurt you,' he reassures. 'You seemed panicked when we mentioned the mermaid, does it have something to do with her- or more of them?'

Your mind is racing trying to piece together a narrative.

Confirmation that she was the thing that put you in such danger will surely be a death sentence- if she isn't already dead. Living with that on your consciousness is a horrid thought to even think of, so, you distance yourself away from creating an accusation, though you find yourself in trouble as you realise how you reacted to the mention of her.

Essentially, you've acted on impulse and no matter the response, you're unsure if it's going to suffice.

'I- I...' you begin, your throat burning as you bring your hand up to clasp it, 'I was on a ship,' you answer, 'I remember it in water- b- but then there was a storm,' you explain, your voice choppy and broken as you rub your hand up and down your throat finding that even your gills have disappeared. 'The siren,' you begin, clearing your throat, 'she tried to help me.'

'Help you?' mutters the one with a strange haircut. 'How'd she do that, lass?'

'I- I was stuck,' you say, 'I couldn't get out an' she tried to, uh, pull me out,' you explain, 'but she got hurt- it might not even be the same one but... there was one, a good one,' you explain, gulping hard as the masked man standing beside the man with his hand on your shoulder shifts on his feet, his eyes burning into your flesh, the sunken eyes behind the skill mask leaving goosebumps on your flesh.

He's harsher than last nights current.

Keeping your eyes trained on the man, you observe him as he peers down at you, his built frame making you feel small. Most definitely, you do not want to get on his bad side; he could probably crush you with one hand.

'Couldn't have been the same mermaid,' he answers, his tone causing your chest to almost rattle, 'took an entire night for you to even wash up here, you wouldn't have survived if it was her,' he notes, the others around you shaking their heads in a collective agreement.

Your heartbeat is pounding in your ears, you feel blood coursing through your veins as you look up at him with teary eyes.

Your bottom lip protrudes as water begins to pour from your eyes. It's unlike anything you've ever felt, and, despite your burning eyes, you find the sensation oddly relieving.

You throat grows tight as you sharply inhale, allowing the cup to rest against the covers as you press the tips of your fingers into your cheeks.

A hiccup escapes your lips as your mouth trembles, all the misery of being lost and having lost escaping you in a cathartic sob that causes your entire body to shake.

'I- I don't know where I am, I- I'm scared,' you confess as more water clings to your eyelashes in little droplets, clinging on, only for their grip to fall loose as you blink, releasing more fresh streams onto your flesh.

Releasing a hand off of your shoulder, the man stationed beside you looks to the man who has his hand on you knee, 'you think you can go and get her some clothes? Poor things on show for the entire village to see,' he says. The man purses his lips for a moment, 'she's gotta have something that she doesn't want.'

'Has so many fuckin' dresses she won't even notice one has gone missing,' he says, standing up from off of the bed, 'I'll go and try and find something, as long as I don't take her cyan one I don't think she'll be too bothered,' he shrugs, 'keep an eye on her for me, won't you?' he asks, looking at the three.

The man with the peculiar haircut places his hand against his shoulder, patting it, 'she's in the best hands of the entire village,' he reassures, 'go an' find the lass some clothes, Gaz, we'll kep 'er safe,' he promises.

Gaz. What an odd name.

The rest of their conversation is lost on you as you're far too caught up in the tightness in your chest and the sounds of the screams you heard on the beach the night before to even think about anything else.

Only, when the door shuts, you startle at the sound of the slam, snapping your head up.

'MacTavish, I need you on patrol today,' says the brown-haired man. The disappointment on his face is notable as his eyebrows curl, 'everyone's on edge with the entire mermaid incident, the last thing I need I people trying to cause more trouble or almost drownin' going to find one of their own,' he says, 'speaking 'f which, need to go and check on her myself, make sure the head wound isn't goin' green,' he huffs, turning to the masked man standing behind him. 'Keep an eye out on her,' he states, turning his attention back to you.

Inwardly, you breathe a sigh of relief, allowing yourself to bathe in your emotion as you come to terms with the fact that she's alive.

Your eyes meet with his, your heart burning at the sight of pity burning in his gaze.

If things were any different, you very well would have wiped the soft smile off of his face, but you look at your options and his uniform, likening it to one your mother had described to you in the past.

'They like to think they have control, dress up in clothes just to make the isolation of their species more capable,' she explained while sitting in upon one a rock. You accompanied her, looking at her. She had such knowledge of the world beyond the water that you were simply awestruck with every story she told you. 'Fabric makes people listen, they're scared of the people with the golden buttons and sharp metal swords.'

'If you need anything, ask him and he'll get it for you,' he asks, looking over his shoulder at the man.

His tone grows harsher upon the mention of him doing his duty, your eyes falling to the man.

'Won't you, Ghost?

The masked man grabs the chair he was sitting on when you first entered the room, moving it as the brown-haired man and MacTavish move in the direction of the door. The chair settles at the side of your bed, as the pair move towards the door.

'Affirmative,' he grunts, taking a seat beside you while the two leave the Station, leaving you alone with the masked man called Ghost.

You look at him briefly, swallowing hard.

It's difficult to sit in silence, your stammering breath a reminder of all you've lost.

Beady eyes look at the masked man as you attempt to choke up the courage to say something to him. Despite sitting, his frame is much bigger than anyone else's you have ever seen, and as he leans forward, resting his forearms on his thighs, you flinch.

'Where's the mermaid?' you ask.

You watch his eyes scan the area surrounding you.

The fabric of his black mask moves as he sucks in a breath, 'can't say,' he confesses, 'confidential; unsure if anyone is listening out to try an' find her. If word gets out where she is, she'd be dead by tonight- if not sooner,' he explains.

'Why do they want her dead? Has she done something to you?'

You want to scream.

The man beside you is short with his responses, speaking of her as though he understands the whole picture, when in reality, their confinement of her is a crime punishable by death.

'She said somethin' she should've have,' he answers simply.

His words drag against his throat as he speaks to you.

'Oh,' you muster, resting your back against the wall behind you.

'Where were you goin'?' he asks.

You raise an eyebrow in his direction, tilting your head as you attempt to process what exactly he means by his statement.

'You said you were on a boat and you were rescued by one of the sirens,' he reminds you, your face flushing with colour as you realise you have already forgotten the tale you were twisting.

'I was with my sister,' you say, 'the memory is quite fuzzy,' you confess, knowing your knowledge of the surrounding land is limited to a map of the sea, not what is beyond it. 'It was for one of her trips, she was travelling to see her husband and then the storm hit.'

'The sea isn't too fond of forgiveness,' he remarks.

'Neither is the land,' you say, falling back into the security of the covers over you, allowing your back to slip from off of the wall, lying down.

Pushing himself up, he looks down at you, mustering a small hug as you sleeping exhale.

All the emotion and crying has your eyes drooping, disregarding your conversation. The man doesn't judge you for that, however, as you watch him looking over you with gentle eyes behind the mask.

'Get some sleep,' he says.

You expect him to say more to that, yet, instead, he pulls his chair from beside you, moving to it back to the corner he was sitting in before.

You keep your eyes on his broad back, watching as he sits down, kicking his feet up on to the desk, keeping his eyes out of the window.

Your eyes stay there as you drift off to sleep.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ☾ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

When the door eventually bursts open, he's quick to send his eyes in the direction of Gaz as he walks through it with a bundle of garments. His mouth is open as he goes to speak, only to quickly shut his mouth when he is eyes falls to you, sleeping in the cot.

Holding the handle of the door, he pushes it shut so the lock clicks as quietly as possible, even going as far as to wince while doing so.

'I managed to find some clothes for her,' he says, 'not sure if I'm going to be a single man when she gets home, but I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.'

Setting the clothes down on the desk, Ghost stands up, picking the green cotton frock up from off of the table holding it out.

'I've never seen her in it,' Kyle says, 'don't even think she remembers having the thing, so she can't be upset about it if she completely forgot it existed, right?'

'Affirmative,' Ghost responds, 'wouldn't be too sure about it, though. She has an eye for the strangest things,' he warns, to which he laughs.

'You're right with that,' he says, 'I saw the Captain while I was out, he was comin' back from checking on the siren, told me to ask you if you're alright taking the girl in until she can remember what day it is; we can't leave her alone.'

He feels his chest tighten as he looks to you, seeing you peaceful sleep as you turn under the covers, your bare arm over your covered torso. 'You're the only one without someone... not too sure how—'

'I'll do it,' he says keeping his eyes trained on you.

Kyle looks at him with wide eyes.

'Well, she has no money does she? Not like an inn keeper is gonna give up a room for her, and I don't want to pay out of pocket to house her when she can just stay at my place.'

The man in front of him grins brightly.

'She'll hardly be any trouble, I'm sure of it,' he reassures, leaning against the desk, 'did she say anything else to you after I left?'

'She was with her sister on a ship heading somewhere to meet her sisters husband and that's then a storm hit and the ship was swallowed by the sea,' he says, 'she didn't say much, too out of it to really make much sense of the world around her.'

'Poor thing,' Gaz sighs, looking at Ghost, 'be nice to her, hey?'

'Wasn't planning on bein' cruel to her.'

'Good, good,' Kyle nods, 'Price told me to tell you that y' can have the rest of the day off if you get her out of the station, by the way. Take her home, get her something proper to eat and see if she wants to talk about it- he's sending something out to other villages to see if they have anyone who fits her description.'

'Doubt there'll be any news back for a while,' he says, approaching you, 'they don't care much for their own.'

His hand rests upon your shoulder and you grunt.

'I'll leave you to it,' Gaz calls from behind Ghost, 'gonna go and try and catch up with Johnny on patrols, doubt my lady would be too pleased with seein' another girl naked,' he chuckles, heading towards the door.

Waiting until the door is closed, Ghost proceeds to crouch down in front of you, rough hand nudging you again.

Your eyes crack open, a startled gasp escaping as you're greeted with the sight of his bone mask right in front of your face.

He feels you tense in his hands.

'Didn't mean to scare you,' he says, 'got you some clothes to keep people from starin' at you love, and then you're coming back to my place,' he explains.

His voice is softer than the tone he held with you prior and you swallow hard.

'Your place,' you croak, your face burning red from the sudden scare from your sleep.

'Yeah; until you're back on your feet and until that head of yours start workin' you're gonna have to stay here,' he explains, 'Price has sent messages out to local villages, see if any family members pick it up.'

Your face falters.

You're going to be here a while.

'Gaz got you some clothes,' he says, motioning over to the table.

Pushing yourself up, you manage to move your legs so your feet are planted against the floor. Ghost averts his eyes away from you, turning away. Sinking your teeth into your bottom lip, you look at the ground at your feet.

Surely it's not that difficult.

Pushing your self up off of the bed, you take a short breath, your legs wobbling as you land back onto the bed.

Despite being gifted the ability of legs, you find it quite pointless that you cannot use them. The water is much easier to navigate than the land is, that much you're sure of.

Looking up at the man in front of you, you let out a small breath.

'Can you help me?' you ask.

He doesn't bother saying anything to you, simply walking over to the table with the dress on it, it's an ugly green colour and you catch yourself grimacing at the fabric. Though, as soon as his eyes are on you, the sneer on your face fades away.

He's rough in the way he pulls the dress over your head, though you manage to get your arms through the sleeves with ease. It's an odd feeling, feeling the fabric against your skin, the elastic cuffs of the sleeves clinging to your arms.

Helping you to your feet, you stagger forward, your face growing red as you grab his arms for some form of support. Yet, he doesn't move, he doesn't even flinch, busying himself with pulling the skirt down, it stopping mid-thigh.

Your legs tremble as you wince, you grip growing tighter on him as you fight to stay on your feet.

'Guess I haven't quite found my footing after the accident,' you awkwardly laugh, wishing to be relieved of this torture.

Your face is beat red as you continue to curse the moon for putting you in such a position, cursing the your words during that night.

Leading you back down onto the bed, you're quick to let go of his arms as he looks at you. He knows you're not going to be able to walk to his house, and he fights off the urge to huff.

There's something so simple yet so difficult about the task... he's a fucking lieutenant in the village guard and he's been put on babysitting duties.

Be nice to her, hey?

Kyle's voice is like a dagger through his skull, and even though you can't see his face under the mask, he musters up a tight-lipped smile, swallowing all his pride for himself and his position.

'I'll carry you.'

Neither of you are happy about this, though a tight-lipped smile of your own appears on your face.

'Great... thanks.'

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ☾ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

His home is humble, quaint, tucked away in a quiet pocket of town.

Pushing open the door, he tilts his head towards the entrance of the house. With uneasy feet, you wobble as you take a step up into his house, his hand grabbing your forearm when you nearly loose balance.

During the course of your travels, you had fought against him, insisting after catching people staring at you for him to put you down and let you walk freely.

At first, he doesn't listen, keeping his eyes trained on the path in front of him, though, fortunately, he relented after you started to squirm in his arms.

It was difficult at first, but you got the hang of it... as long as his arm was around your waist.

It finds its way back around your waist for a short moment as he helps you up the steps.

'Careful,' he utters.

'Thanks,' you respond, holding the sides of the doorframes as you walk into the living room.

It's a quaint and simple little space, although, your cove is much better than this place. Yet, you suppose you cannot be picky while undercover, his hospitality rendering you speechless.

The mystery of the red moon and her tide is still very much fresh and new, you know you must not do something to compromise your safety or your chances of finding Serelia.

Even if it is resulting in you finding shelter in a man with a skull masks home.

Pulling his hood from off of his head head, he shrugged his cloak from off of his shoulders, hanging it up on a wooden stand placed beside the door.

You stand and watch, your arms pressed to your side, still trying to understand how exactly humans manage to stand so straight on their legs.

He turns to look at you, you see his eyes shift under his mask, 'it's not much, and you're going to have to be okay with sleeping on the couch.'

'Much more than what I have right now,' you respond with a soft smile on your face.

'Thank you, Ghost,' you say

'Of course,' he says with a short nod, 'you can help yourself to whatever you want, all I ask from you is to keep out of my room.'

'I can do that,' you reassure, nodding your head.

He doubts you'll even be able to climb the stairs as he can only liken the way you're walking to that of a baby deer learning how to walk for the first time.

He can't complain however; it's entertaining to watch you, and he does so as you make your way over to your new bed, holding your arms out either side to balance yourself before toppling onto the couch with a large exhale.

Sometimes his limited compassion still manages to get him into terrible situations, and as he looks at you, he can't help but worry about what he has gotten himself in for.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ☾ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

After spending some necessary time in his home, you eventually find your feet... both literally and figuratively.

It's difficult for you to stay confined to the four walls of his house, granted, you don't really do much and find joy during your first day there reading through an old shabby collection of books on his shelf.

There's nothing interesting, and you're unsure as to whether or not he himself has read any of them as when you open one, you sneeze from the amount of dust covering it.

It's a fun past time you find, especially during the few attempts of being more steady on your feet. The moon must have heard your complaints as, during the second day, you're nearly unstoppable, aside from the burning in your calves each time you take a step forward.

By the third day, you're almost sprinting out of the house into the village.

It's difficult to adjust to first.

The land is unknown to you, yet, you don't threat.

Instead, you search the village high and low, walking into every store, listening to every conversation of the locals in the village. You feel your skin crawl whenever you hear their laughter, though, it's as though talk of the siren has disappeared completely.

From spending time reading in the library to simply perusing the streets, you're wounded by the lack of information.

Why isn't anyone talking about her? Surely they know where she is; humans hate us and they'll want us gone for the issues we've caused.

The question follows you for a while, only stopping when you see the door open during your fifth night of staying inside Ghost's home.

He appears tired and as his hand moves to his cloak, he quickly stops himself from pulling it down when he sees you in front of him.

It's an odd thing, you've observed him over the past few days, and not once has he shown his face.

Still, you don't care for his habits as you open your mouth over dinner after swallowing a mouthful of food. Your hands is grabbing for the water next to your plate as you state, 'how come no one in town is mentioning the siren anymore?'

He looks at you, chewing under his mask which he holds up after each bite. 'Price has made it a rule,' he states, 'Lords out of town right now on business, until he comes back, we have to hold her per his request,' he explains, 'we've gotta keep her safe and if anyone is heard discussin' her, he's treating it as though it's treason.'

You offer a short nod, going back to eating your food.

'Why?' he eventually asks.

'I just thought, with something as big as this discovery, it would be the talk of the town for years,' you say, 'I thought it was strange, that's all.'

The look he gives you makes you think that he doesn't quite believe what you're saying to him, though, he doesn't press on the matter, going back to eating his dinner.

It's strange to spend time with a human, especially living with them.

He doesn't speak much, only really talking to you at dinner time or greeting you after returning from his shifts around the village to make sure everything is in check.

'You can take the mask off, you know,' you say, observing his discomfort, 'your identity doesn't make a difference to me, besides... this is your home,' you say softy.

Truthfully, the mask is just as much as an annoyance to him as it is to you.

Surprisingly, he listens to your words, pulling the mask tied around the back of his head off of his face allowing you to see his mouth.

Really, he does even know why he committed so long to wearing the stupid thing, growing especially frustrated as dinner grew to be more of a chore than something of enjoyment.

Old habits die hard, he supposes, and the habit of wearing around you died that night thanks to your comment.

While eating, he attempts to ignore your eyes on him, though he is far too aware that you're staring at him, not missing the way your cheeks have a light tinge of red to them.

Grinning to himself, he shakes his head at a crude thought that suddenly pops into his mind, narrowing his eyes as he lifts his head to look at you.

You drop your head immediately, focusing much more on your food than on him, though your embarrassment is difficult to miss.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ☾ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

Simon seems warmer to you after you've been at his house for a little longer. The longer time passes by, the more trips you're taking to the ocean.

It started with one in the early morning, although, you find yourself walking there at the beginning of every day all to talk to the waves, hoping you'll see the familiar face of one of your sisters in the water. Yet, you don't.

Part of you is happy with this fact, not wanting them to see you in such a state wearing the ugly green frock, the only thing you own aside from a pair of sandals which Ghost brought with him upon returning from a shift.

On occasion, you bump into one of the men you saw when you first stop at the station. You learn that MacTavish's name is actually Johnny, and Gaz, the man who found you on the beach, is named Kyle.

They stop to talk to you for a while, sometimes walking with you to the beach where they speak with you.

Nothing interesting really comes from the conversations until, a month into your stay in the village, Johnny blabbers a little too much.

'He enjoys your company, bonnie,' he confesses after complimenting your new pink dress Simon bought you, 'was telling me that he's enjoying giving you little gifts and having you with him for dinner. I'm tellin' you, he like you more than you think.'

'How can he like me when I don't do anything but steal his food and sleep on his couch?'

'Couldn't tell ya, lass, strange man is our Simon.'

You hold your breath.

'Simon?' you ask slowly, a smile creeping on your face.

He slaps a hand over his mouth, his face growing red.

'His names Simon?' you ask, craning your neck forward to look at the blushing mans face.

'Forget I said anything,' he demands, rubbing his face with his hand. 'Please,' he almost begs. 'What I mean to say, lass, is that he does like you, and if you haven't thought of doing something for him, maybe consider it.'

His words follow you into the nighttime as you're helping Simon cook.

It's been something you've been doing for a while, intrigue taking you down the strangest path.

'My mum used to make this soup,' he explains, 'the recipe for it is somewhere, I don't know where it's gone though. It was great for nights like there.'

You hear a bell chime in your ears, thinking back to Johnny's words. Simon doesn't miss the smile on your face.

'What? What did I say?'

'Nothing, Sim-'

You freeze.

The pair of you stare at each other.

'Ghost, I mean Ghost!' you exclaim, holding your hands up, realising that you have most definitely gotten poor Johnny in a hell of a lot of trouble.

'Johnny told you didn't he?'

'He slipped up while he was talking to me today, he didn't mean it and I'm sorry if-'

'Say my name,' he cuts you off quickly and your eyebrows furrow.

'Simon?'

He grins to himself, turning his head away acting as though you have just done him the greatest act of service. 'I like how it sounds when you say it,' he says, going back to chopping up the vegetables, 'much better than Ghost.'

Redness spreads to your cheeks as you admire the look of joy on his face, finding that you want to do that more in order to see that look on his face.

So, as you're eating dinner that night, and even when you're lying on the sofa, you scheme like a criminal.

You toss and turn before you eventually get up and begin your search. Holding a lit candle, your eyes scan through his shelves looking high and low.

You spend what must be hours flicking through books, moving things, looking under the sofa, attempting to squint your eyes to look through floorboard before you find it tucked between the countertop and stove in the kitchen.

Only then can you rest easy, your eyes closing as you think about the mission you have got to complete tomorrow.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ☾ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

Walking through the bustling village main street, you listen to the bright tunes of the surrounding marketplaces, small stalls on either corner of the street, pushing everyone on the main road closer together.

You brush shoulders with a few people, keeping your arms out in front of you as you walk with a basket in front of you, the gold coins Simon has given you per your request rattling in your other hand.

It's rare you're outside as you spend most of your times in the library or back at Simon's home. Though nothing is going to stop you from making Simon the soup he mentioned last night.

Your heart flutters at the thought of how much he has done for you, and as a form of a thank you, you're going through the crumpled up recipe you stole from out of his kitchen, going to different stalls to get the things you need for the recipe.

The trip renders you exhausted, and by the time you're back at his house, you're fighting against sleep as you chop up the vegetable, putting them into the pot. You're unsure if you're doing it right, although, the longer you leave it to simmer, the more it takes the shape of something edible... you suppose.

You keep it on the stove until you hear the door open, and whether or not it tastes good, you're fine enough with the delightful smell that is exuding from the pot on the stove, looking in the direction of the door as it opens and Simon steps into the room.

'You're back,' you cheer, dropping the wooden spoon in the pot, approaching him.

The door shuts and he pulls his takes his hat from off of his head, pulling off his mask.

A crooked smile greets your eyes.

'What's all this?' he asks, his arms resting on your shoulders. It's common now, him touching you, and you sink into his hold on you with a sigh.

'Well, I thought you'd appreciate me making dinner for you,' you say sweetly, grabbing his hands, pulling him through into the kitchen, motioning to the table set. 'Also, you mentioned the old recipe your mum used to make for you, so, I thought I'd try my hand at it, see if I'm a good cook or not.'

He lets out a small ‘hm' as he grabs two bowls from out of the cupboards, placing them down on the countertop beside the stove. His hand hand is touching the small of your back as he grabs hold of the wooden spoon you left in the pot, tugging down the black mask covering his nose and mouth.

You watch, holding your breath as you await his reaction.

'Is it terrible?' you quietly as, looking on his face for any form of reaction, yet, he's unmoved. 'We can get something else to eat if it's really terrible,' you offer, pushing down the cuticles on your nails as you keep your eyes on him.

Setting the spoon back into the pot, he exhales. 'Needs a tad bit more salt, sweetheart,' he gently says, 'but considering this is your first time making it, I think you've done a pretty good job, hey?'

You can't stop yourself from smiling at his gentle words, feeling the warmth of his large hand pressing against your back as he reaches beside the stove, grabbing a salt shaker. 'A little more practice and I think I'm going to have my own personal chef,' he comments, adding some more salt into the soup.

Grabbing the spoon, you stir the mixture, scooping up another spoonful, holding it out to him with your hand underneath it, 'how's it now?'

His eyes are on you as he places his mouth against the spoon.

'Much better,' he says with a smile, 'go sit down, I'll do this.'

'Are you sure?' you ask, feeling him move his hand from off of your back. He gives you a short nod.

'Don't want you to burn yourself, go sit down.'

Over dinner, you share brief words, but it is in the silence and the company of him that you find you're most at peace.

There's nothing from either of you, and you take time to eat the soup you have been working on all day. It's okay, a little on the watery side, and you do think that Simon is still definitely a much better cook that you.

He thinks the soup tastes a tad funny, but he doesn't say it to you.

Such thoughts leave the pair of you to sit together, silently thinking about each other, yet not having the heart to disrupt the peaceful silence.

After dinner, you attempt to help him clean up, only, he refuses your help, requesting you stay in the living room.

'Simon you always do stuff for me,' you whine with a huff, 'let me help you- washing a dish isn't gonna kill me, y'know?

'I have a surprise for you and you're not going to get it if you keep going against what I've asked of you,' he warns, 'be a good girl for me, yeah? Go sit down, I'll be right through and you can have your gift.'

Suddenly, it's like your legs don't work anymore.

Knees almost buckling at his words, you gulp hard, managing out a short breath as you nod your head, not saying another word to him as you approach the living room, taking a seat on the plush sofa, sinking into one of the many black cushions.

Pressing your face into your cupped hands, you fight off the urge to scream at the very fact he only has to speak to you and you melt like butter in a pan.

Death would be easier than this.

Eventually, he reappears holding a box in his hands. Setting it down on your lap, you smile at the sight of a white ribbon tied into a bow. It's a charming sight, and you fight off the urge to rest your head on his shoulder as he sits next to you.

'You didn't have to,' you whisper.

'Well, you don't have many dresses, sweetheart,' he comments, 'my mum would have my head if she found out you only had two dresses,' he said with a short chuckle, his eyes narrowing as he sighs, 'I saw it the other day, been trying think of a good time to give it to you.'

Carefully, you untie the ribbon, pulling the top of the box off, setting it aside.

Peering up at you is a white cotton frock. Small flowers stitched into the open neck of the dress.

Pulling it out, you hold it out in front of you, letting out a squeal as you see the fabric touching all the way to the ground.

You jump into his lap, pressing a firm kiss onto his cheek.

'I love it!' you exclaim, holding the dress to your chest, before quickly pushing yourself off of him, shrugging off the sleeves of the green frock you've had since arriving in the village. 'I don't even wanna wait to try it,' you say brightly.

He watches amused as the fabric falls from off of your body, pooling around your feet. You're unapologetic of your appearance, tits on full show without a single care in the world.

Pulling the white dress over your head, you wiggle your hips as it hugs your waist, covering your legs.

He watches you, his hands on his thighs as you clumsily spin around in a circle, your skirt raising as you do so. 'What do you think?' you ask, 'does it look nice?'

He exhales deeply.

'Was made for you, sweetheart,' he replies with a bright grin on his face, 'gimme another spin.'

Your cheeks flush red, though you comply, your heart swelling at the request.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ☾ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

In the midst of the night is where you roam free, walking through the streets of the village, treading down to the shore all to sit by the water. You watch as the waves roll in with a joyous glint in your eye, knowing home is right at your fingertips.

But oddly, you find home is also on land in the form of your sister and the tall man with a strange mask.

The very thought of him makes you feel nauseous, the thought of him washing all your sentence just as the waves do the shore.

Dinner tonight was almost too much for you to handle, to have someone so close to you, to feel his hand on your back and to hear the humans terms of affection leave his mouth with the intent of the meeting your ears... everything.

You blame the dress you're wearing too.

You feel like you're betraying the words of your dear mother.

She has warned you time and time again of the dangers of the human folk, and here you are, wearing their legs, missing your tail and your vibrant scales, yet, prepared to throw it all away all to hear him utter your name and call you sweetheart just one more time.

All that for a human who doesn't even know the truth of who you are.

'I thought you were here,' you hear a voice call from behind you, almost submerged in the crashing waves.

Turning your head, you see Simon approaching you, his boots leaving prints in the sand.

Stopping beside you, you turn your head as he sits beside you. 'Why 'ave you come all the way out here at this time?'

'Needed some fresh air,' you mumble, resting your chin against your knees, hugging your legs.

'You'll find her again,' he says.

Your blood runs cold.

'Sure that siren saved her just as she saved you, yeah? You'll be with her again some day soon, and who knows, maybe she's become one of them herself.'

'She'd like that,' you whisper, looking at the tide.

I'd like that too.

'Until you know where she is or receive a letter from home, you're stuck with me,' he says, 'sorry.'

You laugh.

'You've been the thing to keep me sane through all this, Si',' you reassure, 'without you I would've lost my mind. I need you, and what you've done for me means more than anything any else has ever done for me.'

'Thank you,' he speaks with his chest, you can hear the smile on his face as he speaks. 'I've enjoyed the company, it's nice to have someone to come home to, makes a change from the constant silence, gets me down sometimes.'

You will die before he is ever alone again, you're convinced.

Letting go of your legs, you pull away from the shore, moving towards him.

The light of the moon bouncing off of the water illuminates his features deliciously and you can't help but think of how he would look beneath the water where the pair of you could live out your days together.

Placing his hand on your knee, you rest your head against his firm shoulder, letting out a small breath as you look out onto the sea.

'Do you want to go back home to your village?' he asks.

'I don't have attachments to places, only people,' you respond, 'doesn't matter where I am as long as I have the people I care about with me- and if they wish to go somewhere else, then I'll will let them to do so.'

'So, when your sister finds you, you're gonna go back home?' he quietly asks, looking at the calm water.

'I don't know,' you say, 'so used to having you with me, and she's found her love now, she doesn't need me anymore. If she even is still alive that is.'

Leaning into the narrative is bruising, and in his silence you sit and think about whether or not you would return to the sea once you finally know that Serelia is safe.

These are the people who have hurt her, the man beside you is keeping her from you, yet, there you are in his arms, seeking comfort in the idea of living out the rest of your life at his side.

Really, you should want to put the entirety of the village under water.

'I want you to stay,' he quietly confesses, 'too used to y' now,' don't think I could go back to normal if you left.'

The feeling of nausea hits you again.

'I wouldn't know what to do with myself,' you say, feeling his grip on your knee tighten.

He holds his breath and you turn to look at him. Half lidded eyes stare back at you, and you find your hand reaching out to slip beneath the mask of the skull on his face, hooking your fingers beneath the fabric of the mask.

'Can I?'

He looks at you, though says nothing.

As you pull your hand away from his face, he pulls the hood down off of his head, undoing the tie around the skull mask on his face, allowing it to fall onto his lap.

Pulling the mask down, allowing it to pool around his neck, he looks you in the eyes. You stare back, settling your hand against his cheek. As you listen to the calmness of the water and under the watching eyes of the moon, you have little issue in leaning in closer.

His hand finds the back of your head as your lips ghost each others and you can feel hit hot breath fanning against your mouth.

'Am I gonna regret this?' you asks.

'You might,' he replies, 'but I won't judge you for it if y' do.'

Your breaths mingle as your lips finally meet, a soft and hesitant connection which sends shivers down your spine. Its delicate, the feeling of his mouth against yours as he holds you as though you're seconds away from turning to ash, leaving him forever.

And while your lips were against his, the thought of doing such doesn't cross your mind.

Not even once.

Upon returning to his house, you walk past the couch you have been lying on, his hand on the small of your back pulling you past, guiding you up the stairs to his bedroom.

Nothing like what you have read happens, instead, he helps you out of your dress, leaving you in your panties. You ask for nothing from him as you climb into his bed as he undresses.

It's intimate, the feeling of his hot flesh against yours setting a light afire in your stomach as you curl into his side, just as you curled into your cove hidden within the depths of the sea.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ☾ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

Days progress and your search for Serelia quells as you keep an open ear on the talks of the city folk.

You could have ended all of this a lot sooner with a song, louring all of them into the water to give you an ample opportunity, but you haven't.

Some other time you would have, though, you've heard your voice while humming a song as you clean your flesh in the mornings, and it's devoid of the deepness to travel as far as it did while sitting upon the rocks on the sea.

She is still alive and well wherever she is, and you're quite sure she has been moved around quite a bit as a safety precaution, and with Price's willingness to keep her from the wrath of the village folk, you know that at least some of the men in the village are good.

The more days roll on, the softer the touches from Simon grow, and as you're sitting in the village library again, holding a book in your lap, your fingers trace over the words written, leaving your words caught in your throat.

Reading has been the one thing to keep you from the curse of whatever has happened to you, and you find the stories written by humans to be quite amusing.

Perilous speculation at it's finest! Your favourite.

Though, you find it's difficult to breathe as you progress further and further through the books in the library until you were greeted with one covered in dust.

The lady didn't see you pull it off of the shelf when you did, and as the sky grows orange before eventually fading to darkness, you're unaware of the change in workers as you press your thighs together, hot breath fanning against the pages of the book.

Only, it's not the story that has you blushing.

Rather, your own thoughts as you replace the characters in your head, seeing the same set of eyes that have been greeting you for the past week while waking up.

It's wrong and it's dirty, but you can't help but think of him.

Perhaps this is simply how humans show affection, and it's not like you haven't been close to doing it; your bare breasts have been pushed against his chest when the pair of you wake in the dawn, and neither of you have moved an inch during the closeness, relishing in the closeness.

'I've got work, love.'

'I don't care, too comfy for you to leave me.'

Your mouth grows dry as you contemplate whether or not he has thought of you in a similar manner, if the thoughts carry onwards to his mind from your own, or if he sees you in a different manner.

A voice calls out your name, the flame of the candle on the table beside you causing you to jump, and as you look up, you're quick to slam the book shut, clearing your throat as you tightly smile at the man standing in front of you.

'Scared me,' he says to you, 'I thought you were home.'

'I got bored,' you shakily say, gripping the book in your hand tightly, holding it as you push your chair in, 'I got caught up reading.'

Even though you try to keep the book out of his view, you find he doesn't care about the stupid collection of pages, his eyes dragging down your body as though they're scanning for any source of possible harm.

'I'm fine, Si',' you whisper.

He nods shortly, 'c'mon, it's late and you need to eat,' he says, stepping to the side, allowing you past.

Keeping hold of the book, you walk along side the man and out of the library.

'You didn't have to drag me out, y'know?' you ask, walking alongside him.

His eyes fall on you, you know it without even looking at him, your eyes scanning over the words in the book, 'could've left me in the library to live with the books, let the pots of colours ink stain my skin and cover me up. Wouldn't have bothered you every again.'

The book is ripped from your hands, slamming shut as the man standing beside you takes it off of you.

'Strange woman,' he remarks, keeping the book in his right hand as you proceed to walk through the town.

Your frustration is obvious but he clearly doesn't care, you see the way his face settles beneath the mask.

'Strange man,' you remark, 'walking around the village with a skull mask on, especially in the dark.'

He only grunts in response to your words, pulling your book in front of him, looking at the title with a raised brow. 'Saccharine?'

He looks at you with a look telling that he knows what's beyond the pages, the possibility of such making your cheeks flare red as he flicks through the pages.

'What's it about?'

'Uhm,' you look at him with weary eyes, 'it's an... adventure.'

He nods his head.

'An adventure,' he says, eyes scrolling down the page he lands on, reading aloud, ''use that pretty mouth of yours for me, sweetheart, tell me what y' want,' he grunts, watching her squirm below him.''

Your face is bright red.

'Something fuckin' adventure that is, huh?' he barks out a laugh, as you elbow him in the side, snatching the book out of his hands. 'You dirty thing reading that out in public,' he mocks, your throat growing dry as you look at him.

'Shut up,' you grumble, slamming the book shut.

His laughter doesn't cease as you head towards his home, 'maybe I should have left you in the library by yourself.'

You wish for the ground to swallow you whole, longing for the cold ocean to reach right into the village and pluck you right from his side, placing you right back into the ocean.

Grabbing his key from out of his pocket, he heads up the steps to his house. You don't miss the glance he gives you.

'Who says I can't sort it out here?' you ask.

The keys fall from out of his hand.

Reaching down, you snag them before he can even muster the strength to breathe after the comment you've just made.

'You'd have an audience,' he says, grabbing your waist as you put his key into the door, turning it.

'I don't care,' you whisper, placing your hand against his cheek, 'especially if it's you.'

You don't quite process what happens until his lips are pressed against yours, the pair of you clumsily stumbling into his house, a giggle escaping you as he keeps you pressed against him.

The next couple of minutes are lost to clumsy steps, giggles and kisses as the pair of you waste no time rushing towards his bedroom.

Somewhere along the line, your dress is discarded, as is his shirt, all for it to be put on you as you sit in his lap clumsily doing up the buttons as the cuffs fall past your hands.

It's an alien feeling, the feeling on someone's lips against yours despite all the chaste kisses you have shared during sleepy mornings, and as he grabs you with greedy hands, you feel yourself melting into his hold, pressing your chest against his as you stifle out a short sound in delight.

You're unsure what exactly the sound was as it's muffled by your lips pressing against one another's, your hands clutching at his shoulders as his hand holds the small of your waist.

You feel the little muscle in your chest flutter as he tilts your head slightly with his other hand, deepening the kiss.

Keeping your eyes close, you feel as though you are one with the tide of the ocean, your limbs become that of liquid, flowing with whatever he wills as you fall apart in his arms.

Your firm grasp against his shoulders melts away as you loosely wrap your arms around his neck, your chest growing tighter as it grows harder to find gasps to take a breath from the kiss.

Placing another kiss against your plush lips, he pulls away, placing his hand against your cheek, rubbing the pad of his thumb against your cheekbone, letting out a gentle sigh as he looks at you.

Such gentleness is unheard of, no man should be so kind, yet, here he is, holding you as though you're the most fragile seashell on the seashore, intending to hold you close to keep you as a memory.

There's an odd heat flooding your stomach when he pulls away, a pulsing in the area you're somewhat familiar with. It's a dull ache, a bruising urge and you began to squirm in his lap in an attempt to chase the feeling away.

The feeling of his pants against you brings a satisfying wave over your body, willing to continue squirming in his lap in the hopes to find some form of quick fix. A breathy whimper escapes you as you continue to grind hopelessly in his lap, chasing after the release you so crave.

Only, your his are grabbed by his hands, as he holds you in place, grunting.

'Hurts,' you grumble, your hands falling to grab his wrists in an attempt to pull them away. Yet, his hold on you persists, keeping you firmly in place.

'Please,' it escapes your lips before you even understand what it is that you're begging for, though there's something that you can only describe as longing to extinguish the fiery blaze in the pit of your stomach.

You continue to fight against his hold on your hips, you lips pressing together in an unhappy manner.

There's a glint you spy as desire in his eyes, though, much to your displeasure, he keeps himself from acting on whatever that particular desire is, leaving you teary eyed in his lap.

'Sweetheart,' Simon breathes, shaking his head, 'hey, hey, it's alright, what are you getting teary eyed f'r? Haven't hurt you, have I?' he asks as your try to blink back the tears forming in your eyes. You're frustrated, unable to tell him what exactly you want because, truthfully, you've only read about such in the books in the library during the times he was busy with work.

All of it is new, and you wish for the blessing of experience you wash over you as you look at him with a lingering frustration.

'No,' you say, 'it's not that, it's that I...' you're unsure what to say, so, you let go of his wrist, lifting your hips as you look him in the eyes, placing a hand against your core.

He looks at you with a crooked smile when he finally catches onto what exactly it is, and all you can muster, in pathetic whisper is, 'need you.'

Sinking your teeth into your bottom lip, you're relieved when one of his hands is pulled from off of your hip as he gently moves his hand against you, cupping your cunt, pressing his thumb up in a particular spot.

You let out a whimper at the strange, yet welcome sensation, noting how his hand is far better than your own.

There should be something shameful about this, only you push into his hold, hoping he returns your enthusiasm.

It's in his arms you feel the most safe you have ever felt, even the tide of the ocean cannot compare to him in this moment as he pulls you loser, looking upon you with moons for eyes, conveying the idea that, maybe, he does think you're the prettiest thing he has ever set his eyes on.

Your back is pressed against the bed, the absence of his touch like a dagger through your heart. He looms over you, arms either side of your head. The lack of light, the flickering flame of the candle and the beams of light from moon shooting through the window render you speechless as you look at him.

'My pretty girl,' he utters underneath his breath, his hand brushing under the cotton shirt, moving further up your skin. Goosebumps form on your flesh as he does so, cheeks red the longer he keeps his eyes on you. 'Made with wind an' sea, you are,' he says, brushing his hand down your stomach, resting it against your pubic bone as he looks you. 'Tell me what you want, sweetheart.'

Opening your legs for him, you muster up a small whimper, looking him in the eyes, 'want you to touch me,' you quietly say, 'please, Si', need you to make me feel better,' you beg, feeling as though you're seconds away from collapsing.

A breath escapes you as he pushes your panties to the side, trailing his fingers up and down your folds with a groan.

There's a distinctive wet noise as he does so, spreading your cunt open with two fingers. Looking down between the valley between your breasts, you swallow hard at the sight of him touching you, jolting when his fingers brush against your clit.

It's unlike anything you've ever experienced.

Continuing in a fluid motion, your back arches as pretty moans escape your mouth, writhing beneath him. The heat in your stomach only grows as he does so.

'That's it, sweetheart,' he utters, sliding his fingers downwards, pressing one digit against your hole. 'Gonna be good for me an' take my fingers?' he asks, to which you eagerly nod your head.

'Y- Yes, please,' you respond, your back arching against the bed as he pushes a finger into you.

An odd stinging sensation causes a tear to slip past your eye as you fist the sheets below you, letting out a small sob. He pauses, you catch the orange light from the candle in his eyes as his mouth falls.

Then, you begin to feel him pull away.

'No,' you quickly exclaim, 'no, no, don't pull away, it's just...' you sink your teeth into your bottom lip, 'I've never done this before.'

He looks at you with wild eyes as he expression softens. Leaning forward, he places his lips against your and you cup his face with both of your hands, your mouth falling open as he begins to thrust his finger in and out of you.

Pressing his forehead against yours, he sighs, 'I didn't know, love,' he confesses under his breath, 'I shouldn't have made assumptions—'

'It's not your fault, Si', you didn't know,' you reassures, 'but I don't want you to stop,' you say, toes curling as his finger presses against a spot which almost has you seeing colour.

The air in the room is hot, only growing when you see a crooked smirk on his face as a crude squelch sounds.

You feel another finger against you.

'Gonna make sure your pretty cunt is taken care of,' he says, 'won't want anyone else after you've had me,' he utters, pushing another finger into you.

It burns for a moment, the stretch aching, yet working to contribute to the cord tightening in your stomach.

You're unsure as to what to expect as a delicious heat envelopes yous body, clumsy hands letting go of his face, moving to his shoulders. More tears slip down your cheeks, a loud moan escaping you as both his finger brush against a spot which has you falling apart in his hold.

You expect him to relent, though, he positions his fingers to proceed to hit that spot. By now you're a babbling mess under him, all the while he's grinning at the pretty mess you're becoming, soaking his fingers as you edge closer and closer to the edge.

You're not going to last much longer, he knows such as you clench around his fingers, his cock hardening at the very thought of having that pretty pussy around him.

There's a panic in your eyes as you edge closer to the edge, so he presses a chaste kiss against your lips, 'you're okay, princess,' you gently says, let go, cum for me, cum around my fingers, let me see how pretty you look,' he says, cautious not to make a demand as he continues to work his fingers into you, stretching you out.

Your chest heaves as you screw your eyes shut, your muscles tensing as you find yourself bracing for the coil in your stomach to snap.

It's odd to be scared of something that is making you feel so good, and you relax realising you're in his arms.

Your thighs begin to tremble as you let out small moans, drool trailing down your chin as you press your head back into his pillow, the heat in your stomach dispersing, crashing down into a pleasurable wave which has you almost sobbing.

Your hole clenches around Simon's finger, your entire body turning stiff as you stifle out a crude gasp, your orgasm washing over you. You watches as you completely fall apart, your juices flooding his fingers as you cum. 'That's it, you're okay,' he breathes, 'I got you, you're okay,' he reassures, his fingers fucking you through your orgasm.

Your raging breath steadily quells as he pulls his fingers out of you, sitting back on his thighs. Your hair is sticking your back as sweat soaks into the shirt you're working.

Whimpering, you watch as he presses the two digits he used to fuck you between his mouth, cleaning the mess you made of his hands with his tongue, letting out a short moan as he pulls his fingers out of his mouth, 'as sweet as honey,' he remarks, taking a moment to admire your glistening cunt.

Instinctively, you close your legs, all for him to tut, placing his hands on your knees, pulling them open again.

'Prettiest cunt I've ever seen sweetheart,' he say, 'don't try and keep it from me, yeah? You're not gonna be cumming around anyone else's cock aside from mine; gonna ruing you, shape that pretty hole for my cock and my cock only,' he gruffly speaks.

You hear the shift of fabric.

Pulling his underwear off, he tosses it somewhere into the room, sifting upwards, a crude wet slap filling the room as he slaps his cock against your clit.

You let out a small yelp as the sensation, your cunt still marked with sensitivity from your orgasm. Though, as you feel the blunt head of his leaking cock between your folds, you find the heat returns with a vengeance, leaving your mouth dry as he presses himself against your hole.

'It's gonna hurt for a second,' he warns, grabbing your hip with his hand, 'just keep breathing for me, let that pretty pussy stretch around me- I'll give y' all the time you need, just tell me,' he utters.

His tone is much darker than any you've ever heard, and as he begins to push himself into you, your mouth closes as you sink your teeth into your bottom lip so hard that you're quite sure you're going to draw blood.

A filthy moan escapes your lovers lips as he pushes into, the heat around his cock making it hard to keep a clear mind as the longing to fuck you until you're sobbing possesses him.

It won't take much, he knows that, counting on the fact that he's not even half way in and tears are already pouring down your cheeks.

Gripping your hips, he eases himself in to the hilt, moaning as you clench around his cock.

'Good fuckin' girl,' he curses, his nails digging into your skin as you wince. Never have you felt so full, feeling his cock pulsing in your core as you squirm beneath him.

Without even moving, you're sure he's pressing against that spot that brought you to your release just moments prior, you stomach twisting.

I'm not going to last.

Your legs merely wrap around his waist as he looks to you, and with a trembling mouth, you nod your head, 'y- you can move,' you say with a small nod, hissing as he pulls out, only to thrust back in.

Your skin is hot as sweat drips down your silky flesh, pushing downwards to meet his thrusts as he picks up the pace. The sound of you skin slapping together is vulgar, though neither of you care as you burble out weak 'ahs' under your breath as he drives his cock into you. Simon isn't quiet either, vocal grunts through gritted teeth as his bruising grip on you maintains a steady pace.

'Fuuuckkk,' he moans, grabbing the bottom of his shirt, ripping it open. You offer him as startled look as he drags his blunt nails up your stomach, grabbing your tits, rolling your nipple between his fingers. 'Prettiest fuckin' girl to ever walk the land,' he claims, 'made for me and my cock, and it's all mine, isn't it?'

'A- All yours,' you confirm, unable to keep a sane mind about you as he's fucking you dumb.

All your mind is sticking to is the thickness off his cock as it's hitting all the right spots. You're sure you're drooling from the sensation, your eyes falling back into your head as you babble out nonsense.

'No one else's,' you manage to get out before you're completely at his disposal, the feel of your next orgasm creeping up on you.

'You gonna cum for me again, princess?' Simon asks, greedily sucking in air as he looks at you, feeling your cunt clenching around him. He himself is edging closer to the edge, the tightness of you around his thick cock simply being too much to bear.

'Yes, 'm so close... so fucking close, please, please let me cum,' you dumbly beg, not able to keep the words from flowing past your lips.

'Go on, sweetheart, cum around my cock, make it yours,' he demands, his thrust growing much more sporadic as he chases after his own release.

A moan escapes your lips as you arch you back off of the bed, your entire body spasming as you allow yourself to fall into the pleasure of your orgasm as the cord in your stomach snaps, forcing a gasp out of you.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you let out a brittle sob, tightening around his cock as you cum. The sound of your skin connecting is wet as Simon fucks you through your orgasm, his curses and grunts filling your ears.

'Fuck, fuck, fuck, that's right sweetheart,' he moans, 'gonna make you mine, fill you up with my cum, no one else is having you, you're mine,' he grunts out, pressing into your, your cunt against his pubic bone as his hands tremble.

He lets out a moan as he fills you up.

It's a filthy feeling, but you love it terribly, your hole twitching as you feel his pulsing cock empty his load inside of you.

A short breath escapes him, and you moan feeling him push deeper inside of you, thrusting and out of you to ensure you're not missing a drop of it.

Remaining inside of you, he moves to lay beside you, keeping bodies pressed against you, the smell of sex and sweat in the clammy air of the room, but he doesn't even think of pulling out, let alone pulling away. Instead he settles with his cock inside out you, pressing another kiss against you.

Your eyes feel heavy, your entire body sluggish as you press your face into the crook of his neck.

'Good girl,' he utters against your skin.

You lay together for a short while before he eventually pulls his softening cock from out of you, you whimpering from oversensitivity as he does so. Your inner thighs are wet, and as your hole clenches around nothing, you're face grows red as you feel his cum dripping out of you.

He leaves you alone for a short while and you lay, your body blanketed in the moonlight. Beyond the window in his room, you spy the ocean in the distances, seeing the rolling waves, your throat tightening are your eyes move around the room, spying his side of the bed, then lifting back to the water.

You can't possibly stay here forever? Can you?

You have people, you have your sister still to find, getting no closer to having Simon confess to you where she is being kept.

When you uncover it eventually, what are you going to do? Free her and stay here? Will the even want you back when you return with the marks of a human all over you?

Your eyes water when he comes back into the room with a cup of water and a damp cloth in his hands, approaching you.

He sees the furrow of your brow and the discontent on your face, taking a seat beside you, pressing his hand against your face.

'I haven't hurt you have—'

'No, no,' you quietly state, sniffling, 'just...' you look at him, holding his wrist. 'I like you,' you whisper, his eyes growing wide at your confession, 'I- I know it's soon but—'

'I like you too, sweetheart,' he reassures, setting the cup of water down on the nightstand.

You rejoice in the outcome of your diversion, noting it works well as he looks at you with all the adoration the human heart can muster. 'Let's get you cleaned up, yeah? Can't leave you like this,' he utters, to which you nod in appreciation.

The night is sleepless for the most part as you're in his arms. It's difficult to confess to yourself, but you're aware of the lies you have told and of the possible consequences to come from it.

Even if he isn't fearful of what you are, there's still the fact that the betrayal will be too great as, essentially, everything you have together is built on a lie, and you're only encouraging it through playing the role of human.

A part of you wishes to wake him from his current sleeping state and tell him, yet, you cower in the thought of conflict destroying the night the pair of you have shared.

So, you tell yourself that you'll tell him tomorrow instead before falling into the heat of his body, closing your eyes.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ☾ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

In the morning you wake with a dull ache between your thighs, looking to the side of your bed.

Simon isn't there and you sit up quickly, eyes scanning around the room, a panicked breath squeezing out of your lung as you search for him.

Has he left for work already?

You feel an odd sense of betrayal well in your breast as you shuffle from under the sheets, stopping in your tracks when you hear the creak of the staircase leading into his room. His head appears first and you quickly fall back onto the bed, eying him.

'I thought you left for work,' you confess as he climbs the final step. He shakes his head, looking out of the window to the early morning sun. It covers his frame in a delicious light and you take a moment to admire him. How his white shirt settles against his chest, the mask on his face right back where it usually it.

It's a shame though; you want to see his blond hair in the light of the sun.

'I'm not that cruel, sweetheart,' he reassures, 'want you to come with me today; I'm sitting in the Station by myself while the other three do whatever, want some company with me,' he says, we'll stop by the library and bakery before we go there, I'll get you that pastry you like,' he offers, fixing the buckle of his belt, 'what do you think?'

Propping your head up with your hand, you look as hm with rosy cheeks and a bright grin on your face. 'Make me a cup of tea when we're in the station too?' you ask.

'If I must,' he says, laughing, moving towards one of the drawers in his bedroom, pulling it open.

Grabbing a dress and panties, walking up to you. Shifting in the bed, you push the sheets back, standing up, taking the panties from his hands.

Stepping into them, you look up to see him holding your dress, the skirt bunched up. 'Hold your arms up,' he instructs, to which you giggle at, but comply, holding your arms up.

Placing the fabric of the dress over your head, you slip your arms inside of the sleeves, as he kneels down in front of you, pushing his mask up slightly so he can press kisses onto your stomach as he lowers the skirt of the dress further and further down.

More laughter spills past you as you watch him with do so. The skirt reaches your ankles and he stands up, grasping your waist. 'Happy I got this dress for you,' he comments.

You quirk an eyebrow.

'I thought you said it was plain.'

'Nothing's plain when you're wearing it, sweetheart,' he responds, pressing a kiss onto your lips. You roll your eyes at his sappiness despite melting into his hold.

'You're an idiot,' you say.

'And you're slow,' he retorts, letting go of your waist, 'finish up getting ready and meet me downstairs, don't take too long; don't wanna be stuck in a queue at the bakery.'

'You're the reason—'

'Don't wanna hear it, princess,' he calls as he walks down the the stairs, leaving you alone in his bedroom, crossing your arms over yourself as you watch him disappear.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ☾ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

He cannot take his eyes off of you as you sit in the station, stray crumbs of the pastry around your mouth as you babble on about one of the books you found in the library.

It never occurred to him until now that it's very much possible to be a love drunk fool, and he feels himself grinning under his mask as you speak with such passion, it's making him lightheaded. He has little understanding of what you're talking about, but that doesn't matter.

He sits and listens to you, only stopping you when he reaches out his hand, brushing away the clumsy flakes of pastry from around your mouth. You stare at him, eyes panning down to your skirt as you blush at the sight of golden flecks on the white fabric.

Brushing your hands over your covered thighs, you brush them away, looking back at him. Opening your mouth, you go to speak, all for your moment to come crashing down as Kyle barges into the Station.

Taking one look at the pair of you, he lets out a comically loud wretch, 'save it for the bedroom, please,' he breathes, closing the door behind him.

'What are you doin' back?' Simon asks, checking your face for any more crumbs, letting a small grunt when he's satisfied there are none, pulling his hand away from you. 'Thought you were going to be out all day.'

'I've been looking for Rhys,' he says, 'he's supposed to be keeping an eye on her and I haven't seen her, when I went to the cabin the door was locked, all the curtains were drawn too,' he explains, rubbing his head.

Your ears perk up with the mention of a cabin, glancing at Simon before back at Gaz.

She's in a cabin somewhere nearby and she's still alive.

Your heart settles with the thought.

'He couldn't have gone far,' Simon says, 'might've slept in or something- if something was wrong, he wouldn't disappear on us.'

'You're right,' Kyle says, closing the door behind him, 'he's a good kid, shouldn't be thinking badly of him in the first place, just difficult not to worry when he's usually there at the crack of dawn, you know?'

'Are people still demanding a trial?' you ask.

'Yeah,' Kyle responds, approaching the fireplace to the right of the bed you're sitting on, pulling the lid off of the kettle. Fortunately, Simon replenished it after making you both a mug of tea. 'We're trying to push it back; she's a nice girl from what I can tell, doesn't speak much though- to me at least,' he explains.

'Why don't you just let her go?'

'Letters from the Lords telling us we can't act until he's back home,' he says, 'unfortunately, we work for him. If it was up to me, she'd be back in the water; I think everything people are saying about her is nothing more than fairytales.'

You smile at his words; he's right, in terms of her, they are all fairytales.

If he's looking for the sirens from fairytales, he's already eyeing her as he talks to you.

'Do you want another cup of tea?' Kyle asks, looking at the pair of you. Simon shakes his head but you nod, though, before you can reach for your mug, it's taken from out of your reach as Simon holds it out for Kyle.

You give him a short look which he returns after handing your cup to to Kyle who busies himself with minding his business.

'You my servant now?' you ask.

'Can be if you want me to be,' he answers.

You roll your eyes, leaning your back against the wall, dusting the remnants of your breakfast off of your hands.

'You're sweet talk is making me sick,' Kyle calls, approaching you, carefully handing you your mug of tea, 'need some lessons in it, Simon,' he adds.

'Fuck off,' barks the man.

'I've got nothing to do so you're not getting rid of me for a while,' he says, 'I'm gonna stay here for a while before heading back up to the cabin, haven't had a moment to relax this morning,' he scoffs, 'could do with a moment of rest.'

Sitting forward, you move your legs off of the bed, allowing Kyle to take a seat beside you, sipping from your mug, 'there's always something to be doing,' he begins to complain, 'never a fuckin' quiet moment in this—'

The door to the station bursts open, slamming against the wall opposite.

'She's dead!'

The cup in your hand drops as you jolt from the sudden noise, the hot liquid merely missing your thighs as you shift out of the way, hearing the tea cup shattering as it meet with the stone floor.

You curse under your breath, looking at the mess you have made as you go to drop to the ground to clean it up, all for Kyle to shake it head while Simon stands up to address the man at the door.

'It's fine love,' reassures the man sweetly, 'you'll end up cuttin' your fingers, I'll clean it up,' he says, looking down at the shattered tea cup on the ground.

Frankly, you appreciate his kindness as you raise to your feet, looking around Simon's bulky frame to the man who scared you.

He's shaking as he speaks looking at Simon, his eyes blown wide, reflective of the surface of the moon as he tugs at his fingers while attempting to express the horrors of which he has witnessed.

'I left for the night, an' when I returned she was dead,' he says, 'bloody and beaten, whoever it was took all her scales, left them around the room like it's some sort of fuckin' confetti.'

Scales.

You're sure you hear Kyle yell, but you're unsure what he actually says.

There's anger in the young man's eyes, genuine emotion as he details every single gruesome detail of the scene.

Serelia.

The siren.

'W- Where?' you manage to get out, not caring if Simon is about to say something in response. 'Where is she?' you roughly demand.

The young man standing in front of you looks at you with wide eyes as you move in front of Simon.

Your lover doesn't say anything.

'Tell me!' you demand, grabbing his shirt.

'T- The cabin just beyond the Lords house,' he stutters.

Without much thought, you're rushing out of the station without any hesitation, rushing through the streets as your heart rages in your chest.

Your mind is racing with his confession, shoving past and barging shoulders with everyone as you push through the busy town square, staggering up the steps towards the direction of the Lords house.

You're aware of the man behind you; Simon never really did let you out of his sights, after all.

Everything seems so much smaller in your eyes as you stumble further and further up, tears flowing freely down your cheeks.

Perhaps it's some form of sick joke- she's okay, she's just playing dead; she's a smart girl, even having tricked you a few times.

She's okay- she's got to be okay.

You're in a fit of hysterics as you pull the door open to the small, reserved cabin.

There are footsteps behind you, a distant call for your name, only, when you pull the door open, you seek the sister you had lost that night on the shore. Still bleeding as she was when she had been taken despite her pleads for freedom, only, she isn't moving.

She lays on the wooden ground of the room, her hand open in your direction, as stray tear slipping down her face as her open, bruised eyes stare into nothingness.

You stand at the door, your bottom lip trembling as you scream out, 'SERELIA.'

Rushing up to her side, you collapse onto your knees, trembling hands hovering over her swollen body, blood seeping into your white frock as you simply sit and stare in horror.

Placing your hand against her cheek, you flinch at the icy feeling of her skin, trailing the tips of your fingers over her soft flesh. Stray scales sit on the ground from around you, plucked like petals from a daisy.

Her body is destroyed, pretty face so swollen, you hardly know who you're looking at.

Nausea hits you, though you fight against the urge to vomit up your breakfast, lunging forward, slipping your hand beneath the bleeding body of your sister, resting your forehead against her shoulder as you pull her close, her body falling over your lap as you sob, brushing your hair through her dirty ginger locks as your body shakes against her still one.

This all feels like a bad dream that you wish to wake from, only, you cannot.

'I- I'm sorry, my urchin,' you manage to get out between spouts of hyperventilation and nausea, your nails digging into her flesh as your arm settles in her blood.

'My beauty, they have destroyed you,' you mumble under your breath, unmoved by the stench in room as your chest swells.

Pulling your head off of the corpses shoulder, you press your hand firmly against her rotten cheek, observing the countless amount of cuts.

You feel the room spinning as you observe the true brutality of mankind, how they are so careless towards the rest of natures creations and you feel like a fool.

A fury burns within you, your tongue ceasing as two hands are placed on your shoulders, attempting to move you away from Serelia. Looking up over your shoulders, you spy the bewildered eyes of your lover.

'Let go of me, Simon,' you demand, turning your head back to the woman on the ground.

His hands stay firmly on your shoulders.

You wish for him to relent, but that's not in his nature. No, he wishes to keep you from all danger, and with the mess you have made of yourself and the crime scene, somewhere deep inside, you understand that you cannot have the very thing you desire.

You're pulled to your feet, crying as you kick and scream in his arms, the bloody skirt of your dress sticking to your legs as you fight against him.

'Let me go!' you cry, turning in his hold, bringing your hands to his chest, weakly hitting him as though it is he who caused the bloody slaughter. 'Let me go,' you hiccup as you're pulled out the door, away from the sight that is sure to haunt you for the rest of your life.

Pushing your hands against his chest, you shove him with all you might, though he does not move.

Placing you against a tree, he gently guides you to the ground as your legs give, kneeling on the ground before you as you chase after your breath, your legs laid out in front of you, your hands resting flat against your thighs.

Looking up towards the sky, you spy the moon staring down upon you despite the morning sky, proceeding to cry as you recall the lights on the shore the night Serelia was taken.

Your throat burns with the desire to scream and scream until you have torn the very vocal cords nature gifted to you, seeing no use in them as you come to realise that you will never call her name and get a response ever again.

'You were never on our side,' you sniffle harshly, hot tears flowing free as Simon simply stares at you. 'I see their torches in the light of your stars. You make us the villains, fool us into doing your dirty work, and then leave us stranded when you want no more to do with us,' you seethe, turning your head to the side as you continue to sob.

Simon's hand presses against your flushed face, pushing your head up from off of your shoulder, 'love, you need to calm down,' he utters gently. 'You're gonna make yourself sick if you keep on like this,' he warns.

He means well, you love him enough to acknowledge that in the midst of your fury.

Yet, your punishment leaves you weak and weary, missing the water you grew up in, missing life prior to that night.

'I already am sick,' you retort in a broken tone, 'infected with the parasite that makes me you, that separates me from her,' you cry, 'no longer a siren, only human.'

You don't care what happens, and, if you do, your emotions keep you from logic.

'W- What?' the man beside you chokes out.

You don't miss the way his hold on your face tightens, yet, you do not flinch, permitting his harsh hold as you look him in the eyes, swallowing harshly.

'I'm not a human,' you whisper, 'I don't know what I am anymore... I never had a sister, I was never in a wreckage, I was looking for her, my Urchin,' you admit, turning your head in the direction of the cabin. 'And now she's gone.'

Your sobs fill the void of silence, only, nothing fills the void of warmth against your face as he pulls his hand away from your face. Looking at him, your bottom lip wobbles.

Every lesson your mother has ever taught you is urging you to hate him, telling you that it is his fault that there she's lying there alone in a puddle of her own blood, unrecognisable.

However, no matter how much you wish to lunge forward and claw his eyes from out of his head, you find heart and mind conflict easily.

'Please say something,' you beg, caving to the gaping hole in your chest, longing for the return of his touch for, what is left after him? An outcast? Nowhere to return, even the ocean doesn't want you, and your bleak reality begins to settle in as his eyes do not change. 'Please, please talk to me, I- I've already lost her—'

He's unsure how to tread, you see the weariness in his eyes. 'What part of you is real?' he asks, 'or are you just a liar?'

'My love for you is real,' you blurt out, 'I cherish you, all of you for caring for me and for taking care of me when I needed it the most,' you continue, 'but I couldn't tell you, Si'- I- I've been trying to think of a way to tell you the truth and I was gonna do it today- I swear to you.'

'Why?' he lowly asks, 'are you afraid of me?'

'Are you afraid of me?' you question, looking him in the eyes as a stray tear falls past your eye.

He pauses.

'Your people murdered one of my own, Si',' you choke out, a flurry of emotion blowing over you as your face and skin prickle with an insatiable heat. 'We act accordingly, you treat us violently, we react with violence, but she...' your words trail, 'she did nothing to anyone, Simon. Had a voice as sweet as honey, charming, loving to the creatures of the sea, and look at what happened.'

'What's stoppin' you from hurting me?'

His voice and tone are raw as you look at him.

Truthfully, in the midst of your misery, you're unable to see the reason which keeps your fury at bay, though, when you look into his eyes, you understand for a moment long enough to form a response.

'You tried to keep her safe,' you whisper, 'keeping her from everyone, keeping her out of the way. They got to her, you didn't.'

And I can't let myself get to you for something you haven't done.

He exhales, looking towards you with bleary eyes.

Always, the desire to push him away is going to nestle within after the events of today, but nothing stops you from lunging into his arms, wrapping your arms around his neck with as you sob.

His large hand presses against your head as he pulls you close, his hold on you almost crushing as you cry into the nape of his neck. If he is hushing you, you can't hear him.

You're in his arms and he's got you.

His hold feels the same as the one you have became accustomed with during your time on land, nothing has changed.

Feeling him tug at his mask, you settle when you feel his lips press against your forehead, and with a small voice he utters, 'I love you,' he says, 'human, siren, sea monster, sea urchin, I don't fuckin' care,' he states firmly, placing another kiss on your forehead.

'I love you too,' you tightly say, feeling the urge to smile at his words, but you don't, simply remaining in his arms.

'I'm sorry, love,' he utters. 'She didn't deserve any of this, neither did you.'

With your face buried into his neck, you nod your head.

'I know.'

You lay in his arms for what seems like an eternity, holding his bloody shirt as he rubs your back.

There's nothing that can be said, you know that.

Both of you do.

A man of few words can hardly be expected to become a flowing fountain of knowledge in the span of an hour.

Anyone else would curse him for not trying to make you feel better, maybe even say he doesn't care about you. But his rough touch turns gentle with you. His boisterous manner is reserved to calmness.

Oddly enough, it's in the most violent man that you find your faith in humanity is kept from drifting off of the cliff, toppling over into the ocean.

Eventually, you feel him shift beside you and you're moved as though your a doll in a child's arms. Looking down at you, he brushes his hand against your face, wiping away the tears that have flooded your face. You place your hands over his much larger ones, looking him in the eyes as you sniffle.

'We can't leave her there like this,' he utters, 'they'll wanna burn her body, 'not gonna let that happen.'

You mouth grows dry.

'We'll bury her up here, there's a clearing near the cliff, overlooking the water so she's not too far from home.'

No words leave your mouth so you simply nod your head in agreement as the pair of you raise from the floor.

Her helps you up and keeps you steady, not daring to let go of you, seemingly fearful that, if you fell, you would shatter and leave him forever.

He does all the work, leaving you to sit and watch as he carefully raps the girl in a sheet, lifting her into his arms with ease.

You standby and watch idly, holding a shovel in one hand and a lantern in the other, unable to look the dismal sight in the eye.

As, you step outside of the cabin, keeping your head bowed as you follow after him, heading towards the burial sight he mentioned.

It's hidden, private, and you stand near the edge of the cliff, looking down into the darkened abyss of water below you as you hear the occasional grunt from behind you as Simon busies himself with digging the gave.

At this moment you're resentful, wishing for some form of blow to the head to send you over the cliff, rejoicing in the short fall before you're able to escape from the consequences of your failure.

Only, you cannot will yourself to go over the cliff on your own accord, knowing if you did, Simon would most likely blame himself- if not follow right after you.

Living in the idea is enough to keep the action at bay, the resounding guilt and regret you imagine you would feel after taking the leap filling you with dread.

So, you turn yourself around and sit next to the woman wrapped in white while Simon makes a grave for her to finally rest her weary head.

It's difficult to say goodbye.

It was difficult when you said goodbye to your mother, a bitter pill to swallow when old age claimed the crazed woman on the seas, though, the guilt stabbing into your heart like a dagger proves to make this send off much worse.

Never did you dream of doing something so horrible, yet, here you are, unable to escape reality.

It's the dead of night by the time the grave is ready, the lantern in your hand flickers as Simon holds the body of Serelia in his arms, lowering her into the grave he constructed using a shovel.

The sheet she's wrapped in is stain red, marked with her blood, and while your chest grows heavy at the sight you find solace hiding in the shadows away from the moonlight.

Kneeling to the ground beside him, you tear the edge of your skirt, placing it onto her body with a shaky sigh.

He looks at you.

'When someone passes, we pull one of own scales and lay it with them to rest so they always have a piece of us with them,' you explain, 'I can't do that for her, but I'm not going to leave her with nothing,' you state.

Grabbing the edge of his shirt, you watch with a sunken smile as he rips a piece of his shirt of, laying it beside the piece of your dress you laid upon her.

'It's an apology,' mumbles the man, 'couldn't be there to keep her from harms way in this life, but she'll have me in the next. She'll have the both of us, yeah?'

'Forever and always.'

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ☾ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

You return to his home covered in blood.

He helps you wash, rubbing a sponge around your back as you lean forward, chin resting against your knees with void eyes. You say nothing to him, only listening to his gentle requests.

While doing so, he feels a heat growing his stomach. It had been set alight from the very second he heard you screaming and crying, and the longer he focuses, the more he finds his blood boils. Someone in the village knew where she was and they killed her- perhaps even multiple people.

A poor young girl was murdered, and in the process they murdered your spirit.

And now he is scared as he looks at you.

There's nothing to tie you to the land anymore, he understands that as he wraps you in a towel, carrying you up the steps to his bedroom in a woeful silence.

There's nothing to tie you to him and he wishes to paint the town red for the crime committed against you, swearing to himself that he will find the perpetrator.

The next time he's cleaning blood from under his fingernails will be the time he has avenged you.

Until then, however, he's committed to being beside you until you no longer want him there as he looks onto you after helping you get ready for bed, lying on his back beside you.

Nothing is left in you, your soul devoid of anything as your mind wanders to her body wrapped in that white sheet, and as you look to the dress discarded on the floor, you find you're not too far off her fate.

Laying your head upon his head, you listen to his heartbeat to make sure he's alive, fearful that he will leave you before you get the opportunity to leave him first.

'I love you,' you croak.

'I love you too, sweetheart.'

After a while he his breathing calms, soothing and melting as a wave on the beach did.

Your mind has been made up since he placed his shirt beside yours, and as you watched him cover her with dirt, you stood with crossed arms and contemplated for a while. The crashing of the waves over the cliff edge called for you as you stood there.

You cannot stay here.

For the good of yourself and the good of him.

Too much is at risk now, and too much has been lost.

Too many thoughts fill your head, bad thoughts. Bringing him to the water all to sing a song to pull him into it.

You'll watch as he fights for air, trying to break the surface of the water once more, but you will not care, simply watching him fight and fight until all life leaves him and his soul has left you.

Foolish mortal men.

You hear your mothers voice ringing in your ears as you look at his sleeping eyes, then to the blood beneath your nails.

Sinking into the watery depths of a sirens den.

Crawling from beside him, you offer him one final look at you lean over the sleeping man, pressing a kiss onto his temple, watching as his hand curls around the pillow on your side of the bed.

Misery strikes you as you look at the empty spot, something within you urging to you to crawl back into bed beside him, only, you're reminded of the celebrations litter through the town, the festering buzzing of the flies in the cabin, and the swollen face of Serelia.

How is one to move past such when they lack the very emotion of remorse?

And how are you supposed to keep your emotions at bay when you feel an unquenchable urge to bring the village into the water?

Both are impossible to solve, and somethings are better off left broken, for, if you act on your anger, you betray the man you love with all your being.

But, if you act on love, you betray the women in the sea who are most likely worried sick with your disappearance. So, you take hold of the first dress he bought you, pulling it over your head, eyes teary as you look at him sleeping.

You're making the right choice in leaving, you say that to yourself when you place another chaste kiss against his cheek, allowing the thought to follow you as you push the door of his house open, stepping onto the pavement.

It follows you down the twists and turns of the street, leading you from place you have both loved and lost back to the ocean where you have only ever know strength and family.

The land is cruel, harsher than the sea.

Even during a violent storm you find you prefer the sea for the land houses people capable of despicable things, maintaining the ability of hurting you, not only on the outside, but also on the inside. You long for normality, for a sense of belonging again, and while you know you will always have a place in his bed and arms, you have a duty to fill elsewhere, an anger to keep at bay, people to keep safe.

You have to go, and you hope he understands.

A man of few words yet the only man who could ever hold your heart and not shatter it, and as you're walking on the sand, stumbling towards the water, you allow yourself to cry an ugly and loud cry as you fist at the fabric of the dress he gifted you, pulling the skirt to your mouth, pressing your lips against the fabric. Your legs carry as you remain with the skirt bundled in your arms, inhaling the scent of the place you have grown to know as home.

But it's never going to be home again.

The water greets your feet as you allow your arms to drop to your side, walking into the sea.

The waves crash down, soaking the bottom of the pink fabric and you continue to sob as you edge further and further into the water, cupping your face in your hands as you stiffly wade through the waves.

Wiping under your eyes with your fingers, you raise your head in the direction of the sky, seeing the moon sitting above the sea. You keep your eyes trained on the red moon, unmoved by the winking stars in the night sky as you turn your back to her.

Observing the land one last time, you fall backwards into the water, whispering an ode to Serelia under your breath as the ocean swallows you whole.

𝙼𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝

TAGS: (If you would like to be added to the tag list let me know!) @forever-twenty-two-years-old

[manicrouge]

I AM MERELY MAN (CH. 2)

CHAPTER TWO: THE REQUEST

[SIMON RILEY X F!READER] - MASTERLIST - IAMM MASTERLIST - PLAYLIST

[ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴄɪꜱɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʟᴘ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴏʟᴅɪᴇʀꜱ ʟᴀɴᴅꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴛʀɪᴄᴋʏ ꜱɪᴛᴜᴀᴛɪᴏɴ.

[ᴄᴡ]: ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ɪɴᴊᴜʀʏ, ʀᴇʟɪɢɪᴏᴜꜱ ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ, ᴘʜʏꜱɪᴄᴀʟ ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ɴᴀᴢɪ ɢᴇʀᴍᴀɴʏ, ᴅᴏᴍᴇꜱᴛɪᴄ ᴀʀɢᴜᴍᴇɴᴛꜱ

IT WAS IN THE AFTERNOON, when you had been watching your sister out of the window playing that you’d caught sight of figures on the horizon. Initially, they seemed so small — perhaps you should have raised the alarm bells the moment you had seen them, but you didn’t. No, instead, you stayed, sitting on your knees, chin rested against your folded arms as you peered out the window, watching as, the people who started off as miniatures, grew bigger and bigger.

And, before you knew it, there were four men standing just beyond the fence around you home, staring at the barn as though it was the second coming of Christ. You recognised their uniform from soldiers you had seen in a village not too far from where your father's farm was located.

They were British.

You smiled upon seeing them — the men who had left their homeland in order to defend you and your country in the time of need.

Although, when you turned to see your mother fixing up dinner with the little scraps your father had left, you knew their presence was sure to be seen as a curse.

Pushing yourself off the sofa, you glanced at your mother once more and, when you had deemed that she was distracted enough, you moved towards the door. You made it two steps before she snapped her head up, and called out, ‘what are you doing?’ 

You turned, nails digging into the palms of your hands and said, ‘Hattie needs to wash up; dinners almost ready, right?’ 

Her eyebrows quirked as she pushed herself up from where she had been sitting. You were a terrible liar, you knew those words were on the tip of her tongue and, without a word, she pointed back towards the sofa as she moved past you and out of the front door.

With a resounding huff, you remained prisoner in your tiny home, trudging back up to the sofa and taking a seat per the request of your mother. You moved back into the position you had been in prior, ignoring the burning in your calfs for the sake of capturing a glimpse of the outside world.

It had been the same ever since the war had started and you did what you were told for the most part, the only time you’d dared betrayed the words of your mother and father having been when you had fetched a bleeding soldier a clean rag — the least you could have done. You often recalled how the man thanked you profusely for it, gripping your hands, as his own hands trembling terribly, and pressing his chapped lips atop of them.

It was the blood on the palm of your hand that told your father the crime you had committed — you had disobeyed him and you had never seen him so furious. You were an adult, a grown woman, and he treated you as though you were still a child, declaring your heart for strangers was dangerous. In reality, you had seen a bleeding man and wished to help him, but to him, you were a monster.

You were the devil. 

The night after that argument, you cried harder than you had ever done in your life. You cried until your head was throbbing, until your heart hurt, until you couldn’t quite catch your breath, writhing around the bed as though you were being exorcised. It was your care, your softness, that had you basically shackled to the sofa — granted, the last part was most definitely melodrama, but alas, you needed something to fill your days.

Excitement came in the form of four soldiers, you thought to yourself, your eyes falling on the tallest out of all of them. He stood with his arms crossed. Out of all of his facial features: large nose, soft brown hair, a slight beard.

In particular, you were entranced by his eyes.

There was something about them, they narrowed as your mother approached them flapping her arms around like a lunatic, observing her with a brutal judgement. Still, in spite of the war your mother was trying to wage, he stood, unmoved by her dramatics.

Your attention was turned to your sister as she bursted through the door, screaming out bloody murder. 

‘It’s them! It’s the German’s!’

She threw herself against the sofa, balling her little fists and grasping the blanket strewn against it as she wept, ‘they’re gonna kill us!’ 

Her terror prompted you to rest your hand gently against her back, rubbing in a circular motion as you shushed her. ‘They’re British,’ you said, ‘they’re the people who are fighting for us.’ 

Still, she wailed as though she had been struck across the face and, when she lifted her head up off the sofa, snivelled, looking at you. ‘Really?’ 

‘Yes,’ you nodded, ‘they’re the good guys.’ 

‘Papa said that all of them are monsters.’ 

Your brows furrowed, recalling how your father had ranted on during dinner one night a couple of months ago. How the young mind had sucked it up and remembered it all that time later was, really, concerning.

Yes, everyone was hungry and he was irate that night as he pushed around the small portion your mother had gave him in. The scraping of his fork against the porcelain eventually ended with him erupting, declaring bloody murder as he branded all the soldiers, good and bad, with the same brush because, no matter what, they were still murderers — sent by the devil to bring the fall of humanity.

Still, he did nothing to help the cause and a part of you suspected that, if there came a time where you would have to flea for the sake of your safety, he would refuse, happily dying on the farm knowing that he never gave into the merciless and cruel thing that was war.

You tried to emphasise endlessly with the old man and his reason because he was your father and, in spite of his flaws, you still loved the man dearly, even if, sometimes, it seemed that the love wasn’t mutual. 

‘Well,’ you said, swallowing hard, ‘papa’s wrong.’ 

Your sister gasped, mouth hanging open as she stared at you. ‘You can’t say that!’ 

Your lips drew a thin line as you wiped away her tears, ‘well, sometimes, people are wrong,’ you said, ‘and sometimes, that someone can be papa — even mama.’ 

‘Even you?’ 

You smiled. ‘Even me… because, the men outside aren’t monsters; they’re people, like you and me. People who are fighting to keep us safe. How can you know that someone like that is a monster?’ 

She took a moment to think about what you had said to her, her little hands fisting at the fabric of the knitted blanket. ‘I guess… I don’t.’ 

‘Exactly,’ you said gently, ‘now, go and wash up for dinner.’ 

She did as you asked her, pushing herself up and off the sofa.

When she was gone, you turned your attention back to the window, finding that your mother had escorted the men to the barn, a disapproving look etched on her face as she stormed back up to the cottage. You paid little mind to her and her fury, looking past her to see the masked man leaning against the entrance of the barn, arms crossed as he looked out at the farm.

He stood there without so much as moving his head, although, when he did, he turned, looking directly at you. Your eyes met for a short moment, an overwhelming heat flooding your face.

Quickly, you pushed yourself off the sofa just as your mother shoved the door to the cottage open, having and puffing.

‘Men never listen,’ she said bitterly, ‘I told them, you know what I told them? I told them that, when your father gets back from the village, that he is going to kill them and they did not listen!’ You permitted her fury, not daring to disrupt her as she moved through the house. She was red in the face as she carted her hands through her hair. ‘Where’s your sister?’ 

‘Washing up for dinner.'

That only seemed to worsen her anger.

‘Dinner will not be done for another hour at least,’ she said, shaking her head, ‘and now I’m going to have to listen to her whining as well.’ 

You didn’t apologise for your honest mistake, instead, you waited for the woman to turn her back and, when she was facing the oven, you snatched two apples from the fruit bowl in the middle of the table, declaring, ‘I’ll give her an apple to tide her over for the time being.’ 

She didn’t so much as face you and, before leaving, you snagged a basket sitting on a stool near the stove, placing the two apples atop it, heading down the corridor to your bedroom.

You didn’t stay there for too long as you opened the latch on the window, climbing out of it just as you had done many times before, sneaking your way around the house, making a mad dash to the barn. 

Of course, you had never done something so defiant and you imagined that, whatever you were to face when your mother discovered that you had snagged the two loaves of bread she had made that morning would be akin to the worst torture you could imagine.

Until that time came, however, you stuck to your guns and knocked on the door with a shaking hand. It was a sheepish knock, one of uncertainty, and the chatter from behind the door came to a stop upon you doing so.

You waited, heartbeat ringing in your ears before pushing the door open. 

The sight was endearing, they seemed more of a family than the one you had found yourself in as they sat around the table, seemingly in good humour as one in particular, the one with the strange haircut, grinned brightly in your direction.

Moving slowly towards them, you set the basket down on the table, opting to take a seat with them. Your heartbeat rang in your ears and you pulled the towel off the basket, revealing the food you had brought. To your horror, there was much more than you had bargained for in the basket; the inclusion of the wine and cheese being completely accidental as you thought back to the conversation you had heard your mother and father having earlier that morning.

It was for the Church in the village — a donation.

You were mortified as you looked in the basket, noticing that they had also included five glasses. A peculiar addition, you’d thought. Unfortunately, you had no way of telling them that they couldn’t have the food as you hardly knew their language and, when you saw the delight on their faces, you melted as you brought your finger up to your mouth, in the hopes that they would understand your gesture.

Grabbing the glasses in the basket, you handed them out. The first glass went to the man with the strange haircut.

His smile grew and, with a thick accent he said, ‘merci.’ 

It was all the confirmation you needed to know that you were doing the right thing, even if said thing would end in your possible demise.

It didn’t matter though; these men needed food more than you needed it and, if your parents were to be as upset as you imagined they would be, then you would simply bear the consequences, sleeping easy, knowing that you had done a good thing for good people.

The last person you gave a glass to was the man with the fascinating eyes and when he took it from you, his calloused fingers brushed against yours. A spark of electricity ran down your spine, but you recovered quickly as your hand settled against your thigh. 

The man with the brown beared took the bottle of wine in his hands. ‘Your mother doesn’t know, does she?’ he asked in albeit, a massacred version of your language. 

Still, you couldn’t deny that he read you like a book. 

You shook your head, ‘she doesn’t.’

‘You’ll get into trouble when she finds out, won’t you?’ 

‘Oui,’ you said, nodding your head, ‘but, never mind that, you need to eat.’ 

The man looked at you once more before opening the bottle of wine, pouring a small helping of it into his glass, then handing it to the dark-skinned fellow sitting beside him. He took it gladly, although, his ‘merci’ was directed towards you as opposed to the man who had just handed him the drink.

You smiled back at him, offering him a small nod.

They drank the wine happily and you watched with a smile as they ate the food you had brought to them. It was sliced with a hunters knife the man with the pretty eyes had attached to his belt and he took the apple’s you had brought and cut them into slices, leaving them in the centre of the table.

All aside from one as, the one he kept, was not for himself, rather, he extended his hand out to you, offering you a slice of the stolen goods you had brought as gifts.

You stared at the palm of his hand, much more intrigued by the scuffs and scrapes — the demonstration of the war that existed beyond your small farm. His hand twitched as he went to move it away, seemingly afraid that he had startled you in some way. Before he could pull away completely, you caught his wrist. Your grip was by no means harsh and, with a man of his stature, you imagined that he could have pulled away with a resounding ease, but he didn’t.

You took the apple slice from the palm of his hand and, prior to bringing it your mouth, you smiled at him and said the one thing you had learned the last time you had helped one of theirs: ‘Thank you.’ In response, he nodded his head, turning his attention away from you soon after.

For a while, they said nothing to one another, too focused on the food you had brought to them as they dined like kings, pouring more of the wine in their glasses. The man with the beard even offered you some but you shook your head and waved your hand as you thanked him for his generosity.

You had no idea how long you existed with the men and it was only when you heard the squeal of the hinges of the doors to the barn that you realised you had gotten too distracted. A man stood in the door — your father — wielding the rifle he often used to kill cattle.

His face morphed into horror when he saw you sitting at the table with the men and your rushed to your feet, the peace you had known for a split second shattering as he gritted his teeth, calling out your name.

Every excuse made its way to your mouth and your tongue tasted each and every one wondering which one would be the least offensive to your father's taste.

It was too late for that as he said, ‘get back to the house, now!’ 

A vein protruded from his forehead and he pointed with force. You looked back at the men and, whilst moving to leave, you mumbled, ‘please, don’t hurt them, papa; they’re good men.’ 

He said nothing to you, not even bothering to look at you. A response would have been pointless anyway and, if he were to pull the trigger, which you doubted considering his stance, you found comfort in knowing that you had done all you could to make sure the men were as comfortable as possible. 

You knew not what had happened and when you walked through the back door of the cottage, you were told by your mother, in spite of you being a grown woman, to go to your room as she couldn't stand the sight of you during that moment. She stated harshly that you were in ‘serious trouble’ and such a remark was certainly not wasted on you as you felt your hands growing clammy at the sheer thought of what the could have entailed: would they leave you with no food for a week? Perhaps they would confine you to this damned house for the rest of your life; it was hardly a secret that you loathed having to stay in doors. Really, there was something uniquely humbling hearing the laughter of your five year old sister on the outside, all whilst you, a twenty-three year old grown woman was forced to stay in door just in case someone, who needed help, stumbled upon the farm.

It was idiotic and when you opened the door to your bedroom, you closed the door with a slam, and threw yourself down onto the bed like a scolded child. Red in the face, your fists curled around the covers, huffing and puffing with anger. You laid there for what felt like an eternity when, in reality, it couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes.

There was no gunshots heard, which you had waited for on bated breath, the only bang being the thud of your bedroom door hitting the wall.

Your father stood in the doorway, heaving his breath like a wild animal. You lifted your head to see him and he moved, his shadow looming over you, balling his fists.

For a moment, he did nothing, just standing and staring at you, teeth gritted, looking at you as though he wished to end the life he was supposed to cherish. So, in an attempt to calm him, you carefully pushed yourself up off the bed so you were sitting, facing him. 

‘Papa—’

Your voice broke him from his trance as he raised his hand. He struck you across the cheek, such force knocking you sideways, the top of your head merely grazing your pillow. Immediately, you held your hand to your cheek, wide eyed as you felt the raging heat of his rage in your skin. 

‘You selfish little bitch!’ declared your father, ‘so selfish — never thinking about your family, always thinking about yourself. How dare you!’ 

He was screaming, spit gathering around the corners of his mouth as his brows arched.

Never in your life had you seen such fury.

You remained lying against the mattress, hand resting against your cheek. But, you did not cry. No, you laid, listening to the vitriol spewing past his lips, plaint and quiet. It seemed, from what you could tell at that moment, that he’d been holding onto those words for a while and, it had ultimately been your theft that had resulted in him snapping. His rantings and insults ended when his lips began to turn faintly blue.

Between gasping for air, he declared, ‘I can’t stand you — I hate you.’ 

He turned and left your room, closing the door with a slam.

You flinched at the sound, not daring to move up off your bed. Instead, you remained there, lying like a corpse in a coffin, the voice of your father, his comment about hating you in particular, spinning around your head. You face throbbed, and you were sure you could taste metal, realising you had bit your tongue upon initial impact.

You felt paralysed, whether by fear or the heartbreak of essentially losing your father for the sake of helping strangers, you hadn’t known. A lone tear left your eye, curving around the bridge of your nose.

The door to your bedroom opened once more, this time gently, and the sound of socked feet against the floorboards caught your attention.

You blinked, finding the back of your sister’s head as she pulled down on the handle, the door closing with a soft click. When she turned back to you, she startled at the state you were left in. She rushed up to your side, little hands grabbing at your forearm. You followed where she was pulling you, sitting up. You saw the tears in her eyes and, just as you had done when she had thought those strangers were here to do the unspeakable, she extended her hand out and gently wiped away the lonesome tear on your face. 

‘Papa’s upset,’ you said to her. 

‘He hit you?’ 

You nodded your head, the knot in your throat growing in size. A brittle gasp escaped her mouth, hand holding your wrist, pulling it away from your face, exposing the mark on your cheek. Whilst you couldn’t see it, you understood that it was bad from how your sister tensed at the sight of it. Then, as though to hide it from her view, she placed her hand against your cheek, mumbling out a small apology when you hissed at the action. 

‘I hate him!’ she declared aloud, small nose scrunched. ‘Hate him! Yes, yes I do.’

‘You don’t mean that.’ 

‘I do,’ said the girl with incredible volition. ‘I do, I do, I do! I hate him!’ You shushed her quickly, leaning over to cover her mouth with your hand. She wriggled out of your hold, declaring once more, ‘I hate him!’ 

She was seething, the anger on her face mirroring the anger you had seen just a few moments ago on the face of your father. Only, rather than it being directed primarily at you, it had been used to combat the will of the man who had struck you. Still, you persisted, ‘he was right.’ 

‘You were helping the people who are trying to save us,’ she said, ‘you said that they’re not monsters.’ 

‘They not.’

‘Papa’s the monster.’ 

‘Did you hear what he said to the men in the barn?’ 

’No,’ she said, ‘but I think they’re still there.’ 

You nodded your head, startling at the sound of footsteps moving closer and closer to your bedroom. She heard them too as she turned, arms extended out either side of her body as though to shield you from incoming danger.

The door opened, and you spied your mother. Her eyes widened slightly at the sight of the mark on your cheek, but she recovered relatively quickly, moving her attention to your sister.

‘Dinner, Hattie.’ 

‘What about ma sœur?’ inquired the little girl. 

Your mother shook her head, ‘she’s been naughty. She’s not having dinner tonight. Now come, or you can go to bed hungry too.’ 

Hattie turned to look at you, lips drawn into a thin line. You nodded gently, hands against her back to push her towards her mother. And, when she didn’t budge, you said, ‘go on. You must eat.’ 

Looking between you and your mother, you were relieved when she moved towards the door. Your mother moved to the side, ushering her outside of your room, closing the door behind the pair of them. 

You didn’t move from off your bed, staring at the door, listening to the quiet murmured conversation down the hall, the smell of food leaving your stomach rumbling as you sat, hands braced on the edge of your bed.

Your heart thudded in your chest, watching as the sunlight in your room soon died, leaving only darkness as the night arrived. You hadn’t managed to move past the initial smack, however, and even though your father wasn’t in the room with you anymore, you couldn't quite place yourself in the present as his voice repeated over and over, only worsening the pain on your cheek.

How brutally he had treated you for doing what you had felt was the right thing to do!

You had plenty of food to survive — you hardly needed the things you had gifted to the men, and he treated you that way.

It was then that you thought about the men in the barn, wondering if he had settled things with them or had simply told them to continue onwards to wherever they were going.

His cruelty, had he done so, would have left you charged enough to never speak to him again.

You listened out for the closing of bedroom doors, hearing the telling of a bedtime story in your sisters room before daring to move off your bed and, when you did, you did just as you had done when you had snatched the basket from in the kitchen.

Unhooking your window, you pushed it open, climbing out of it. You landed, barefoot in the grass, making a mad dash towards the barn, determined to find out the fate of the man who had welcomed you just as you had done with them.  

There had been so much you had experienced ever since moving to the farm — recalling how much happier you had been when you had lived with your grandmother in Amiens — how free you had felt and how you had loved the city. You thought of the city and its cobblestones as you ran through the grass, the skirt of your dress gathering at your legs, flowing behind you.

You wished to return to her — to see her again as opposed to seeing the words she had written for you and the well wishes she sent your way. It had been so long since you had seen her, let alone the city, and you wondered how the war had affected her.

She had written to you plenty to let you know that she was safe where she was, wishing to see you again one day.

You’d been made teary eyed by the words your grandmother had directed towards you, stating how she could not wait to embrace you one day soon. 

With that thought, as you encroached on the space, you knew what you needed to do. 

You smiled the best you could without causing yourself pain when you caught sight of a dim light from under the closed doors of the barn. Your pace slowed and you panted lightly for air, opting to move slower in case you startled them. When you made it to the doors, your fingers wrapped around one of them, carefully pulling it open.

It creaked when you did so and you winced, peaking your head in to see three of the men lying on their backs in a pile of hay. One in particular — the man with the beard — was snoring terribly loud, hand resting against his stomach, limbs strewn out with his mouth wide open.

The others — the man with the peculiar hair cut and the dark-skinned man — were also fast asleep.

When you moved your eyes away from them, you found, hunched over at the make-shift table, was the man with the pretty eyes.

He had a book in front of him, holding a pen as he stared down at the pages in front of them. You couldn’t make out what exactly was written on them as it was written in English, although, had you spoken the language, you were sure you still would have had a difficult time considering just how sloppy his handwriting was. He sensed you staring at him as he raised his head, your eyes meeting once more.

He set the pen down, closing his journal before raising to his feet. Dusting off his pants, he approached you. You stood and stared momentarily, heart beat ringing in your ears as he slowly got closer and closer to you.

While understanding and knowing that he was not a threat, the sheer size of him, his height and build, still rendered you frightened as you moved backwards, until you were fully outside of the barn. You didn’t run, you stayed put and waited for him to appear. He did so quickly, hand clutching the door to ensure that it wouldn’t wake the sleeping men on the inside. 

Looking up at him, you blinked, gulping when he raised his hand, fingertips brushing against the bottom of your chin, forcing your head up a little higher. You watched as his eyes narrowed — he seemed almost disgusted by your face — until you realised that it wasn’t your face that he took issue with, rather, the mark your father had caused. He said something to you, whatever he’d said, you hadn’t a clue, but from his tone alone, you understood that he wasn’t happy with what he was looking at.

Lifting your hand up, you clutched his wrist. He didn’t pull away from you, eyes remaining on you as you lifted your other hand, using your index finger to point at yourself, then turning your hand to point at him. You knew he was confused in your attempt to express your desire to leave. 

‘Go,’ you said. 

‘Go?’

‘Please,’ you said, this time in English, your hand slipping from his wrist as you looked back at the cottage in the distance. You pointed there and shook your head and then pointed at the barn and nodded eagerly. This time, he seemed to understand as he immediately shook his head.

Again you said, ‘please.’ 

You hadn’t a clue where they were headed or what they were doing, all you knew is that, if you stayed on the farm for a second longer, you would surely suffocate.

‘Please,’ you repeated. ‘I don’t want to be here anymore.’ 

The door to the barn was pulled open and, it was only when you saw the bearded man staring at the pair of you that you realised that the snoring had, in fact, stopped. He trudged outside, joining the pair of you, a cigar in his mouth as he struck a match, lighting the end of it.

You turned to him immediately. ‘Let me go with you.’ 

His brow furrowed. ‘What?’ 

‘Let me,’ you said, taking a breath, ‘go with you.’ Upon taking a closer look, you knew he’d seen the mark on your face. ‘Please, i- if I stay here any longer, I will die.’ 

Once again, the melodrama appeared. 

‘You don’t know where we’re going.’ 

‘I don’t care,’ you said with a huff. ‘Let me go with you — even if we part ways, please. I can't stand to stay here a moment longer.’ 

The masked man looked at him and said something. 

‘Please,’ you said in English. ‘I have family in Amiens! You’re going that way, aren’t you?’ 

The man seemed conflicted by your request as he took a long drag of his cigar. He said something to the other man, addressing him as ‘Simon’.

The man responded with a shake of his head as he glanced at you, muttering something else, leaving you with the other man as he stepped back into the barn.

You watched him as he left, chewing on your bottom lip when you looked back at the man. He took another drag of his cigar, pursing his lips as he exhaled. You held your breath. 

‘No,’ he said, ‘it’s too dangerous.’ 

Your shoulders touched the lobes of your ears. ‘Please.’ 

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘now you ought to go back home. It's late’ 

You stared at him teary eyed, clenching your fists as you bowed your head, nodding bitterly. Turning away from the man, you headed into the darkness, back to the place you loathed, silently cursing yourself, yet, not regretting helping the men who refused to help you. 

[manicrouge]

ugh this so good i wanna eat it

[manicrouge]

“can mutuals dm you?” my mutuals can fire me from a cannon through a brick wall, looney tunes style. as long as we’re all having fun

[manicrouge]

I AM MERELY MAN - Simon Riley x F!Reader

INFORMATION

Popular works in the series are marked with '➸'

This entire series is x F!Reader

This series is set in the 1940s during WW2

Explicit works are marked, if you are a minor, please do not interact.

PLAYLIST

BLURB

Upon being called home during the evacuation of Dunkirk, a four-man brigade stumble across a farm in which Lieutenant Simon Riley becomes infatuated by a doe-eyed farm girl.

CHAPTERS

» CHAPTER ONE: MERE YET ABUNDANT

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴜᴘᴏɴ ʀᴇᴄᴇɪᴠɪɴɢ ɴᴇᴡꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ᴇᴠᴀᴄᴜᴀᴛᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴜɴᴋɪʀᴋ, ᴀ ꜱᴍᴀʟʟ ʙʀɪɢᴀᴅᴇ ʙᴇɢɪɴ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴊᴏᴜʀɴᴇʏ, ᴇɴᴄᴏᴜɴᴛᴇʀɪɴɢ ᴀ ꜱᴍᴀʟʟ ꜰʀᴇɴᴄʜ ꜰᴀʀᴍ ɪɴ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ᴛʜᴇʏ ꜱᴇᴇᴋ ʀᴇꜰᴜɢᴇ.

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: ꜱʟᴏᴡ ʙᴜʀɴ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ᴠᴏᴍɪᴛ, ɢʀᴀᴘʜɪᴄ ᴅᴇᴘɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴜɪᴄɪᴅᴇ, ᴄʜɪʟᴅ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ɢᴏʀᴇ, ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ, ɢʀᴀᴘʜɪᴄ ᴅᴇᴘɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴡᴀʀ, ʀᴇʟɪɢɪᴏᴜꜱ ʀᴇꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇꜱ

» CHAPTER TWO: THE REQUEST

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴄɪꜱɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʟᴘ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴏʟᴅɪᴇʀꜱ ʟᴀɴᴅꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴛʀɪᴄᴋʏ ꜱɪᴛᴜᴀᴛɪᴏɴ.

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ɪɴᴊᴜʀʏ, ʀᴇʟɪɢɪᴏᴜꜱ ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ, ᴘʜʏꜱɪᴄᴀʟ ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ɴᴀᴢɪ ɢᴇʀᴍᴀɴʏ, ᴅᴏᴍᴇꜱᴛɪᴄ ᴀʀɢᴜᴍᴇɴᴛꜱ

🔒 CHAPTER THREE

🔒 CHAPTER FOUR

🔒 CHAPTER FIVE

🔒 CHAPTER SIX

🔒 CHAPTER SEVEN

🔒 CHAPTER EIGHT

🔒 CHAPTER NINE

🔒 CHAPTER TEN

🔒 EPILOGUE

[manicrouge]

I AM MERELY MAN (CH. 2)

CHAPTER TWO: THE REQUEST

[SIMON RILEY X F!READER] - MASTERLIST - IAMM MASTERLIST - PLAYLIST

[ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴄɪꜱɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʟᴘ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴏʟᴅɪᴇʀꜱ ʟᴀɴᴅꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴛʀɪᴄᴋʏ ꜱɪᴛᴜᴀᴛɪᴏɴ.

[ᴄᴡ]: ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ɪɴᴊᴜʀʏ, ʀᴇʟɪɢɪᴏᴜꜱ ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ, ᴘʜʏꜱɪᴄᴀʟ ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ɴᴀᴢɪ ɢᴇʀᴍᴀɴʏ, ᴅᴏᴍᴇꜱᴛɪᴄ ᴀʀɢᴜᴍᴇɴᴛꜱ

IT WAS IN THE AFTERNOON, when you had been watching your sister out of the window playing that you’d caught sight of figures on the horizon. Initially, they seemed so small — perhaps you should have raised the alarm bells the moment you had seen them, but you didn’t. No, instead, you stayed, sitting on your knees, chin rested against your folded arms as you peered out the window, watching as, the people who started off as miniatures, grew bigger and bigger.

And, before you knew it, there were four men standing just beyond the fence around you home, staring at the barn as though it was the second coming of Christ. You recognised their uniform from soldiers you had seen in a village not too far from where your father's farm was located.

They were British.

You smiled upon seeing them — the men who had left their homeland in order to defend you and your country in the time of need.

Although, when you turned to see your mother fixing up dinner with the little scraps your father had left, you knew their presence was sure to be seen as a curse.

Pushing yourself off the sofa, you glanced at your mother once more and, when you had deemed that she was distracted enough, you moved towards the door. You made it two steps before she snapped her head up, and called out, ‘what are you doing?’ 

You turned, nails digging into the palms of your hands and said, ‘Hattie needs to wash up; dinners almost ready, right?’ 

Her eyebrows quirked as she pushed herself up from where she had been sitting. You were a terrible liar, you knew those words were on the tip of her tongue and, without a word, she pointed back towards the sofa as she moved past you and out of the front door.

With a resounding huff, you remained prisoner in your tiny home, trudging back up to the sofa and taking a seat per the request of your mother. You moved back into the position you had been in prior, ignoring the burning in your calfs for the sake of capturing a glimpse of the outside world.

It had been the same ever since the war had started and you did what you were told for the most part, the only time you’d dared betrayed the words of your mother and father having been when you had fetched a bleeding soldier a clean rag — the least you could have done. You often recalled how the man thanked you profusely for it, gripping your hands, as his own hands trembling terribly, and pressing his chapped lips atop of them.

It was the blood on the palm of your hand that told your father the crime you had committed — you had disobeyed him and you had never seen him so furious. You were an adult, a grown woman, and he treated you as though you were still a child, declaring your heart for strangers was dangerous. In reality, you had seen a bleeding man and wished to help him, but to him, you were a monster.

You were the devil. 

The night after that argument, you cried harder than you had ever done in your life. You cried until your head was throbbing, until your heart hurt, until you couldn’t quite catch your breath, writhing around the bed as though you were being exorcised. It was your care, your softness, that had you basically shackled to the sofa — granted, the last part was most definitely melodrama, but alas, you needed something to fill your days.

Excitement came in the form of four soldiers, you thought to yourself, your eyes falling on the tallest out of all of them. He stood with his arms crossed. Out of all of his facial features: large nose, soft brown hair, a slight beard.

In particular, you were entranced by his eyes.

There was something about them, they narrowed as your mother approached them flapping her arms around like a lunatic, observing her with a brutal judgement. Still, in spite of the war your mother was trying to wage, he stood, unmoved by her dramatics.

Your attention was turned to your sister as she bursted through the door, screaming out bloody murder. 

‘It’s them! It’s the German’s!’

She threw herself against the sofa, balling her little fists and grasping the blanket strewn against it as she wept, ‘they’re gonna kill us!’ 

Her terror prompted you to rest your hand gently against her back, rubbing in a circular motion as you shushed her. ‘They’re British,’ you said, ‘they’re the people who are fighting for us.’ 

Still, she wailed as though she had been struck across the face and, when she lifted her head up off the sofa, snivelled, looking at you. ‘Really?’ 

‘Yes,’ you nodded, ‘they’re the good guys.’ 

‘Papa said that all of them are monsters.’ 

Your brows furrowed, recalling how your father had ranted on during dinner one night a couple of months ago. How the young mind had sucked it up and remembered it all that time later was, really, concerning.

Yes, everyone was hungry and he was irate that night as he pushed around the small portion your mother had gave him in. The scraping of his fork against the porcelain eventually ended with him erupting, declaring bloody murder as he branded all the soldiers, good and bad, with the same brush because, no matter what, they were still murderers — sent by the devil to bring the fall of humanity.

Still, he did nothing to help the cause and a part of you suspected that, if there came a time where you would have to flea for the sake of your safety, he would refuse, happily dying on the farm knowing that he never gave into the merciless and cruel thing that was war.

You tried to emphasise endlessly with the old man and his reason because he was your father and, in spite of his flaws, you still loved the man dearly, even if, sometimes, it seemed that the love wasn’t mutual. 

‘Well,’ you said, swallowing hard, ‘papa’s wrong.’ 

Your sister gasped, mouth hanging open as she stared at you. ‘You can’t say that!’ 

Your lips drew a thin line as you wiped away her tears, ‘well, sometimes, people are wrong,’ you said, ‘and sometimes, that someone can be papa — even mama.’ 

‘Even you?’ 

You smiled. ‘Even me… because, the men outside aren’t monsters; they’re people, like you and me. People who are fighting to keep us safe. How can you know that someone like that is a monster?’ 

She took a moment to think about what you had said to her, her little hands fisting at the fabric of the knitted blanket. ‘I guess… I don’t.’ 

‘Exactly,’ you said gently, ‘now, go and wash up for dinner.’ 

She did as you asked her, pushing herself up and off the sofa.

When she was gone, you turned your attention back to the window, finding that your mother had escorted the men to the barn, a disapproving look etched on her face as she stormed back up to the cottage. You paid little mind to her and her fury, looking past her to see the masked man leaning against the entrance of the barn, arms crossed as he looked out at the farm.

He stood there without so much as moving his head, although, when he did, he turned, looking directly at you. Your eyes met for a short moment, an overwhelming heat flooding your face.

Quickly, you pushed yourself off the sofa just as your mother shoved the door to the cottage open, having and puffing.

‘Men never listen,’ she said bitterly, ‘I told them, you know what I told them? I told them that, when your father gets back from the village, that he is going to kill them and they did not listen!’ You permitted her fury, not daring to disrupt her as she moved through the house. She was red in the face as she carted her hands through her hair. ‘Where’s your sister?’ 

‘Washing up for dinner.'

That only seemed to worsen her anger.

‘Dinner will not be done for another hour at least,’ she said, shaking her head, ‘and now I’m going to have to listen to her whining as well.’ 

You didn’t apologise for your honest mistake, instead, you waited for the woman to turn her back and, when she was facing the oven, you snatched two apples from the fruit bowl in the middle of the table, declaring, ‘I’ll give her an apple to tide her over for the time being.’ 

She didn’t so much as face you and, before leaving, you snagged a basket sitting on a stool near the stove, placing the two apples atop it, heading down the corridor to your bedroom.

You didn’t stay there for too long as you opened the latch on the window, climbing out of it just as you had done many times before, sneaking your way around the house, making a mad dash to the barn. 

Of course, you had never done something so defiant and you imagined that, whatever you were to face when your mother discovered that you had snagged the two loaves of bread she had made that morning would be akin to the worst torture you could imagine.

Until that time came, however, you stuck to your guns and knocked on the door with a shaking hand. It was a sheepish knock, one of uncertainty, and the chatter from behind the door came to a stop upon you doing so.

You waited, heartbeat ringing in your ears before pushing the door open. 

The sight was endearing, they seemed more of a family than the one you had found yourself in as they sat around the table, seemingly in good humour as one in particular, the one with the strange haircut, grinned brightly in your direction.

Moving slowly towards them, you set the basket down on the table, opting to take a seat with them. Your heartbeat rang in your ears and you pulled the towel off the basket, revealing the food you had brought. To your horror, there was much more than you had bargained for in the basket; the inclusion of the wine and cheese being completely accidental as you thought back to the conversation you had heard your mother and father having earlier that morning.

It was for the Church in the village — a donation.

You were mortified as you looked in the basket, noticing that they had also included five glasses. A peculiar addition, you’d thought. Unfortunately, you had no way of telling them that they couldn’t have the food as you hardly knew their language and, when you saw the delight on their faces, you melted as you brought your finger up to your mouth, in the hopes that they would understand your gesture.

Grabbing the glasses in the basket, you handed them out. The first glass went to the man with the strange haircut.

His smile grew and, with a thick accent he said, ‘merci.’ 

It was all the confirmation you needed to know that you were doing the right thing, even if said thing would end in your possible demise.

It didn’t matter though; these men needed food more than you needed it and, if your parents were to be as upset as you imagined they would be, then you would simply bear the consequences, sleeping easy, knowing that you had done a good thing for good people.

The last person you gave a glass to was the man with the fascinating eyes and when he took it from you, his calloused fingers brushed against yours. A spark of electricity ran down your spine, but you recovered quickly as your hand settled against your thigh. 

The man with the brown beared took the bottle of wine in his hands. ‘Your mother doesn’t know, does she?’ he asked in albeit, a massacred version of your language. 

Still, you couldn’t deny that he read you like a book. 

You shook your head, ‘she doesn’t.’

‘You’ll get into trouble when she finds out, won’t you?’ 

‘Oui,’ you said, nodding your head, ‘but, never mind that, you need to eat.’ 

The man looked at you once more before opening the bottle of wine, pouring a small helping of it into his glass, then handing it to the dark-skinned fellow sitting beside him. He took it gladly, although, his ‘merci’ was directed towards you as opposed to the man who had just handed him the drink.

You smiled back at him, offering him a small nod.

They drank the wine happily and you watched with a smile as they ate the food you had brought to them. It was sliced with a hunters knife the man with the pretty eyes had attached to his belt and he took the apple’s you had brought and cut them into slices, leaving them in the centre of the table.

All aside from one as, the one he kept, was not for himself, rather, he extended his hand out to you, offering you a slice of the stolen goods you had brought as gifts.

You stared at the palm of his hand, much more intrigued by the scuffs and scrapes — the demonstration of the war that existed beyond your small farm. His hand twitched as he went to move it away, seemingly afraid that he had startled you in some way. Before he could pull away completely, you caught his wrist. Your grip was by no means harsh and, with a man of his stature, you imagined that he could have pulled away with a resounding ease, but he didn’t.

You took the apple slice from the palm of his hand and, prior to bringing it your mouth, you smiled at him and said the one thing you had learned the last time you had helped one of theirs: ‘Thank you.’ In response, he nodded his head, turning his attention away from you soon after.

For a while, they said nothing to one another, too focused on the food you had brought to them as they dined like kings, pouring more of the wine in their glasses. The man with the beard even offered you some but you shook your head and waved your hand as you thanked him for his generosity.

You had no idea how long you existed with the men and it was only when you heard the squeal of the hinges of the doors to the barn that you realised you had gotten too distracted. A man stood in the door — your father — wielding the rifle he often used to kill cattle.

His face morphed into horror when he saw you sitting at the table with the men and your rushed to your feet, the peace you had known for a split second shattering as he gritted his teeth, calling out your name.

Every excuse made its way to your mouth and your tongue tasted each and every one wondering which one would be the least offensive to your father's taste.

It was too late for that as he said, ‘get back to the house, now!’ 

A vein protruded from his forehead and he pointed with force. You looked back at the men and, whilst moving to leave, you mumbled, ‘please, don’t hurt them, papa; they’re good men.’ 

He said nothing to you, not even bothering to look at you. A response would have been pointless anyway and, if he were to pull the trigger, which you doubted considering his stance, you found comfort in knowing that you had done all you could to make sure the men were as comfortable as possible. 

You knew not what had happened and when you walked through the back door of the cottage, you were told by your mother, in spite of you being a grown woman, to go to your room as she couldn't stand the sight of you during that moment. She stated harshly that you were in ‘serious trouble’ and such a remark was certainly not wasted on you as you felt your hands growing clammy at the sheer thought of what the could have entailed: would they leave you with no food for a week? Perhaps they would confine you to this damned house for the rest of your life; it was hardly a secret that you loathed having to stay in doors. Really, there was something uniquely humbling hearing the laughter of your five year old sister on the outside, all whilst you, a twenty-three year old grown woman was forced to stay in door just in case someone, who needed help, stumbled upon the farm.

It was idiotic and when you opened the door to your bedroom, you closed the door with a slam, and threw yourself down onto the bed like a scolded child. Red in the face, your fists curled around the covers, huffing and puffing with anger. You laid there for what felt like an eternity when, in reality, it couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes.

There was no gunshots heard, which you had waited for on bated breath, the only bang being the thud of your bedroom door hitting the wall.

Your father stood in the doorway, heaving his breath like a wild animal. You lifted your head to see him and he moved, his shadow looming over you, balling his fists.

For a moment, he did nothing, just standing and staring at you, teeth gritted, looking at you as though he wished to end the life he was supposed to cherish. So, in an attempt to calm him, you carefully pushed yourself up off the bed so you were sitting, facing him. 

‘Papa—’

Your voice broke him from his trance as he raised his hand. He struck you across the cheek, such force knocking you sideways, the top of your head merely grazing your pillow. Immediately, you held your hand to your cheek, wide eyed as you felt the raging heat of his rage in your skin. 

‘You selfish little bitch!’ declared your father, ‘so selfish — never thinking about your family, always thinking about yourself. How dare you!’ 

He was screaming, spit gathering around the corners of his mouth as his brows arched.

Never in your life had you seen such fury.

You remained lying against the mattress, hand resting against your cheek. But, you did not cry. No, you laid, listening to the vitriol spewing past his lips, plaint and quiet. It seemed, from what you could tell at that moment, that he’d been holding onto those words for a while and, it had ultimately been your theft that had resulted in him snapping. His rantings and insults ended when his lips began to turn faintly blue.

Between gasping for air, he declared, ‘I can’t stand you — I hate you.’ 

He turned and left your room, closing the door with a slam.

You flinched at the sound, not daring to move up off your bed. Instead, you remained there, lying like a corpse in a coffin, the voice of your father, his comment about hating you in particular, spinning around your head. You face throbbed, and you were sure you could taste metal, realising you had bit your tongue upon initial impact.

You felt paralysed, whether by fear or the heartbreak of essentially losing your father for the sake of helping strangers, you hadn’t known. A lone tear left your eye, curving around the bridge of your nose.

The door to your bedroom opened once more, this time gently, and the sound of socked feet against the floorboards caught your attention.

You blinked, finding the back of your sister’s head as she pulled down on the handle, the door closing with a soft click. When she turned back to you, she startled at the state you were left in. She rushed up to your side, little hands grabbing at your forearm. You followed where she was pulling you, sitting up. You saw the tears in her eyes and, just as you had done when she had thought those strangers were here to do the unspeakable, she extended her hand out and gently wiped away the lonesome tear on your face. 

‘Papa’s upset,’ you said to her. 

‘He hit you?’ 

You nodded your head, the knot in your throat growing in size. A brittle gasp escaped her mouth, hand holding your wrist, pulling it away from your face, exposing the mark on your cheek. Whilst you couldn’t see it, you understood that it was bad from how your sister tensed at the sight of it. Then, as though to hide it from her view, she placed her hand against your cheek, mumbling out a small apology when you hissed at the action. 

‘I hate him!’ she declared aloud, small nose scrunched. ‘Hate him! Yes, yes I do.’

‘You don’t mean that.’ 

‘I do,’ said the girl with incredible volition. ‘I do, I do, I do! I hate him!’ You shushed her quickly, leaning over to cover her mouth with your hand. She wriggled out of your hold, declaring once more, ‘I hate him!’ 

She was seething, the anger on her face mirroring the anger you had seen just a few moments ago on the face of your father. Only, rather than it being directed primarily at you, it had been used to combat the will of the man who had struck you. Still, you persisted, ‘he was right.’ 

‘You were helping the people who are trying to save us,’ she said, ‘you said that they’re not monsters.’ 

‘They not.’

‘Papa’s the monster.’ 

‘Did you hear what he said to the men in the barn?’ 

’No,’ she said, ‘but I think they’re still there.’ 

You nodded your head, startling at the sound of footsteps moving closer and closer to your bedroom. She heard them too as she turned, arms extended out either side of her body as though to shield you from incoming danger.

The door opened, and you spied your mother. Her eyes widened slightly at the sight of the mark on your cheek, but she recovered relatively quickly, moving her attention to your sister.

‘Dinner, Hattie.’ 

‘What about ma sœur?’ inquired the little girl. 

Your mother shook her head, ‘she’s been naughty. She’s not having dinner tonight. Now come, or you can go to bed hungry too.’ 

Hattie turned to look at you, lips drawn into a thin line. You nodded gently, hands against her back to push her towards her mother. And, when she didn’t budge, you said, ‘go on. You must eat.’ 

Looking between you and your mother, you were relieved when she moved towards the door. Your mother moved to the side, ushering her outside of your room, closing the door behind the pair of them. 

You didn’t move from off your bed, staring at the door, listening to the quiet murmured conversation down the hall, the smell of food leaving your stomach rumbling as you sat, hands braced on the edge of your bed.

Your heart thudded in your chest, watching as the sunlight in your room soon died, leaving only darkness as the night arrived. You hadn’t managed to move past the initial smack, however, and even though your father wasn’t in the room with you anymore, you couldn't quite place yourself in the present as his voice repeated over and over, only worsening the pain on your cheek.

How brutally he had treated you for doing what you had felt was the right thing to do!

You had plenty of food to survive — you hardly needed the things you had gifted to the men, and he treated you that way.

It was then that you thought about the men in the barn, wondering if he had settled things with them or had simply told them to continue onwards to wherever they were going.

His cruelty, had he done so, would have left you charged enough to never speak to him again.

You listened out for the closing of bedroom doors, hearing the telling of a bedtime story in your sisters room before daring to move off your bed and, when you did, you did just as you had done when you had snatched the basket from in the kitchen.

Unhooking your window, you pushed it open, climbing out of it. You landed, barefoot in the grass, making a mad dash towards the barn, determined to find out the fate of the man who had welcomed you just as you had done with them.  

There had been so much you had experienced ever since moving to the farm — recalling how much happier you had been when you had lived with your grandmother in Amiens — how free you had felt and how you had loved the city. You thought of the city and its cobblestones as you ran through the grass, the skirt of your dress gathering at your legs, flowing behind you.

You wished to return to her — to see her again as opposed to seeing the words she had written for you and the well wishes she sent your way. It had been so long since you had seen her, let alone the city, and you wondered how the war had affected her.

She had written to you plenty to let you know that she was safe where she was, wishing to see you again one day.

You’d been made teary eyed by the words your grandmother had directed towards you, stating how she could not wait to embrace you one day soon. 

With that thought, as you encroached on the space, you knew what you needed to do. 

You smiled the best you could without causing yourself pain when you caught sight of a dim light from under the closed doors of the barn. Your pace slowed and you panted lightly for air, opting to move slower in case you startled them. When you made it to the doors, your fingers wrapped around one of them, carefully pulling it open.

It creaked when you did so and you winced, peaking your head in to see three of the men lying on their backs in a pile of hay. One in particular — the man with the beard — was snoring terribly loud, hand resting against his stomach, limbs strewn out with his mouth wide open.

The others — the man with the peculiar hair cut and the dark-skinned man — were also fast asleep.

When you moved your eyes away from them, you found, hunched over at the make-shift table, was the man with the pretty eyes.

He had a book in front of him, holding a pen as he stared down at the pages in front of them. You couldn’t make out what exactly was written on them as it was written in English, although, had you spoken the language, you were sure you still would have had a difficult time considering just how sloppy his handwriting was. He sensed you staring at him as he raised his head, your eyes meeting once more.

He set the pen down, closing his journal before raising to his feet. Dusting off his pants, he approached you. You stood and stared momentarily, heart beat ringing in your ears as he slowly got closer and closer to you.

While understanding and knowing that he was not a threat, the sheer size of him, his height and build, still rendered you frightened as you moved backwards, until you were fully outside of the barn. You didn’t run, you stayed put and waited for him to appear. He did so quickly, hand clutching the door to ensure that it wouldn’t wake the sleeping men on the inside. 

Looking up at him, you blinked, gulping when he raised his hand, fingertips brushing against the bottom of your chin, forcing your head up a little higher. You watched as his eyes narrowed — he seemed almost disgusted by your face — until you realised that it wasn’t your face that he took issue with, rather, the mark your father had caused. He said something to you, whatever he’d said, you hadn’t a clue, but from his tone alone, you understood that he wasn’t happy with what he was looking at.

Lifting your hand up, you clutched his wrist. He didn’t pull away from you, eyes remaining on you as you lifted your other hand, using your index finger to point at yourself, then turning your hand to point at him. You knew he was confused in your attempt to express your desire to leave. 

‘Go,’ you said. 

‘Go?’

‘Please,’ you said, this time in English, your hand slipping from his wrist as you looked back at the cottage in the distance. You pointed there and shook your head and then pointed at the barn and nodded eagerly. This time, he seemed to understand as he immediately shook his head.

Again you said, ‘please.’ 

You hadn’t a clue where they were headed or what they were doing, all you knew is that, if you stayed on the farm for a second longer, you would surely suffocate.

‘Please,’ you repeated. ‘I don’t want to be here anymore.’ 

The door to the barn was pulled open and, it was only when you saw the bearded man staring at the pair of you that you realised that the snoring had, in fact, stopped. He trudged outside, joining the pair of you, a cigar in his mouth as he struck a match, lighting the end of it.

You turned to him immediately. ‘Let me go with you.’ 

His brow furrowed. ‘What?’ 

‘Let me,’ you said, taking a breath, ‘go with you.’ Upon taking a closer look, you knew he’d seen the mark on your face. ‘Please, i- if I stay here any longer, I will die.’ 

Once again, the melodrama appeared. 

‘You don’t know where we’re going.’ 

‘I don’t care,’ you said with a huff. ‘Let me go with you — even if we part ways, please. I can't stand to stay here a moment longer.’ 

The masked man looked at him and said something. 

‘Please,’ you said in English. ‘I have family in Amiens! You’re going that way, aren’t you?’ 

The man seemed conflicted by your request as he took a long drag of his cigar. He said something to the other man, addressing him as ‘Simon’.

The man responded with a shake of his head as he glanced at you, muttering something else, leaving you with the other man as he stepped back into the barn.

You watched him as he left, chewing on your bottom lip when you looked back at the man. He took another drag of his cigar, pursing his lips as he exhaled. You held your breath. 

‘No,’ he said, ‘it’s too dangerous.’ 

Your shoulders touched the lobes of your ears. ‘Please.’ 

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘now you ought to go back home. It's late’ 

You stared at him teary eyed, clenching your fists as you bowed your head, nodding bitterly. Turning away from the man, you headed into the darkness, back to the place you loathed, silently cursing yourself, yet, not regretting helping the men who refused to help you. 

[manicrouge]

I AM MERELY MAN - Simon Riley x F!Reader

INFORMATION

Popular works in the series are marked with '➸'

This entire series is x F!Reader

This series is set in the 1940s during WW2

Explicit works are marked, if you are a minor, please do not interact.

PLAYLIST

BLURB

Upon being called home during the evacuation of Dunkirk, a four-man brigade stumble across a farm in which Lieutenant Simon Riley becomes infatuated by a doe-eyed farm girl.

CHAPTERS

» CHAPTER ONE: MERE YET ABUNDANT

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴜᴘᴏɴ ʀᴇᴄᴇɪᴠɪɴɢ ɴᴇᴡꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ᴇᴠᴀᴄᴜᴀᴛᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴜɴᴋɪʀᴋ, ᴀ ꜱᴍᴀʟʟ ʙʀɪɢᴀᴅᴇ ʙᴇɢɪɴ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴊᴏᴜʀɴᴇʏ, ᴇɴᴄᴏᴜɴᴛᴇʀɪɴɢ ᴀ ꜱᴍᴀʟʟ ꜰʀᴇɴᴄʜ ꜰᴀʀᴍ ɪɴ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ᴛʜᴇʏ ꜱᴇᴇᴋ ʀᴇꜰᴜɢᴇ.

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: ꜱʟᴏᴡ ʙᴜʀɴ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ᴠᴏᴍɪᴛ, ɢʀᴀᴘʜɪᴄ ᴅᴇᴘɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴜɪᴄɪᴅᴇ, ᴄʜɪʟᴅ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ɢᴏʀᴇ, ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ, ɢʀᴀᴘʜɪᴄ ᴅᴇᴘɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴡᴀʀ, ʀᴇʟɪɢɪᴏᴜꜱ ʀᴇꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇꜱ

» CHAPTER TWO: THE REQUEST

╰┈➤ [ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴄɪꜱɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʟᴘ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴏʟᴅɪᴇʀꜱ ʟᴀɴᴅꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴛʀɪᴄᴋʏ ꜱɪᴛᴜᴀᴛɪᴏɴ.

╰┈➤ [ᴄᴡ]: ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ɪɴᴊᴜʀʏ, ʀᴇʟɪɢɪᴏᴜꜱ ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ, ᴘʜʏꜱɪᴄᴀʟ ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ɴᴀᴢɪ ɢᴇʀᴍᴀɴʏ, ᴅᴏᴍᴇꜱᴛɪᴄ ᴀʀɢᴜᴍᴇɴᴛꜱ

🔒 CHAPTER THREE

🔒 CHAPTER FOUR

🔒 CHAPTER FIVE

🔒 CHAPTER SIX

🔒 CHAPTER SEVEN

🔒 CHAPTER EIGHT

🔒 CHAPTER NINE

🔒 CHAPTER TEN

🔒 EPILOGUE

[manicrouge]

I AM MERELY MAN (CH. 1)

CHAPTER ONE: MERE YET ABUNDANT

[SIMON RILEY X F!READER] - MASTERLIST - IAMM MASTERLIST - PLAYLIST

[ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: ᴜᴘᴏɴ ʀᴇᴄᴇɪᴠɪɴɢ ɴᴇᴡꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ᴇᴠᴀᴄᴜᴀᴛᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴜɴᴋɪʀᴋ, ᴀ ꜱᴍᴀʟʟ ʙʀɪɢᴀᴅᴇ ʙᴇɢɪɴ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴊᴏᴜʀɴᴇʏ, ᴇɴᴄᴏᴜɴᴛᴇʀɪɴɢ ᴀ ꜱᴍᴀʟʟ ꜰʀᴇɴᴄʜ ꜰᴀʀᴍ ɪɴ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ᴛʜᴇʏ ꜱᴇᴇᴋ ʀᴇꜰᴜɢᴇ.

[ᴄᴡ]: ꜱʟᴏᴡ ʙᴜʀɴ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ᴠᴏᴍɪᴛ, ɢʀᴀᴘʜɪᴄ ᴅᴇᴘɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴜɪᴄɪᴅᴇ, ᴄʜɪʟᴅ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ɢᴏʀᴇ, ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ, ɢʀᴀᴘʜɪᴄ ᴅᴇᴘɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴡᴀʀ, ʀᴇʟɪɢɪᴏᴜꜱ ʀᴇꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇꜱ

I AM MERELY MAN — he read the words scribbled down into the back of his tan-paged notebook, bound by the talented hand of the bookmaker of his hometown. Holding a pen in his hand, it shook, beady eyes peering down at, what to many, should not have been considered a staggering revelation. 

Yes, he was what his form commanded him to be: brooding, bold, and busy. 

And still in the flesh he resided in, he understood there was more to him, much more as he pressed the tip of the pen against the page, swallowing a mouthful of saliva.

He started with the first letter of his next intended word, the first line, while bold, weak in its form as the shaking of his hand worsened the foundation. Beneath the nib of the pen, the paper snagged, the ink pooling into the new found crevices, filling the lines of the page like water in a river. The richness of the colour in the candle light marred him and his soul, chewed him down to his bones as he matched the blackness of this inky portrayal of his indescribable truth to the blood he had seen on his excursion — the blood that had been shed by his hand and his hand alone.

In that way, yes, he was a mere man, nothing more, nothing less.

Although, the line in the paper existed in the paper demonstrated a truer meaning to what he was or, rather, what he had become. 

His hand was not relieved of the tension attempting to escape him as he lifted his head from the page momentarily to look around the dirt walls he had since called his home.

There were a few bodies, supposedly still alive.

He waited to hear anything, a grunt, a groan, or even the shift of their mud-caked uniform; something that breathed out in the silence of the summer night: ‘I am here, go on with what you must.’

And it was from the mouth of his Captain that he heard a sound — the smacking of chapped lips and a croaked out groan. He’d gotten sick, as most were during the summer months of war (most likely from the abundance of pollen in spite of the blatant lack of flowers) and, for a week or so, had taken to breathing only through his mouth as the congestion had built up to the point where, on occasion, he would raise from his seat and press his fingers against the side of his neck all to feel the thudding of his heartbeat. 

Never had he woke when he done so, in fact, he was quite sure that he had no idea that he was taking such considerable care towards him.

Duty called him, however, it was everything that was needed to make sure that they would, eventually, see the light of spring break through the hounding darkness, chasing the wolves and their hunger away, rebuilding what had been destroyed with whatever fruits nature would craft from the blood of their fallen. And, he intended to be there for when that spring day came — and he was certainly not going to be alone in the field. 

Turning his eyes back to his page, his eyesight warped, weary with the curving of the flame resting on the wooden plank he’d called a desk, breath fogging in the air, knocking the flame in the other direction. It flickered, casting his shadow against the back wall as he placed his pen back down against the page.

In spite of the coldness, his body was consumed by a feverish heat, insufferable in its determination to capture the fury he had felt every day since he had been placed, seemingly, with the intent of being buried, in the muddy hole he called home. In fact, his nose scrunched up, dried mud stuck in his beard as his hold on his pen grew to become a vice-like grip, the paper of his journal breaking as he stabbed the page with his pen. His brain throbbed and he was unable to tell which organ was leading him. 

Was he his brain or heart at that moment?

Really, he had never had quite so much time to himself to think.

For, had it not been for the clamouring conversation of his squad-mates, the void of his existence would be filled with the sound of gunfire echoing across the fields. In his time there, he noticed how everything mimicked nature for, whenever there was an explosion, if you listened carefully enough, the mud and debris disturbed would hit the nearby ground with a sound akin to rain hitting pavement. 

Could it be that they had tired nature out to the point where her cries could only be heard in the depths of their destruction? 

She was everywhere and nowhere at the same time for the fields, where flowers would have otherwise bloomed, were left muddied sludge.

There were no daisies, only the dead.

Blinking, he breathed out as he finished his work with a full-stop. This time, the paper tore as he circled the pen over and over and over and over and over. Again and again. 

It was a trance-like state, watching as the ink pooled, how the paper sucked up all it could before it became too full, taking to sit on top of the page. Then, he set the pen down beside it as though he had not committed a murder, hands resting against the edge of the make-shift desk, casting his eyes down to bare witness to what his body had forced out of him. 

Blasphemy!

He thought such to himself, not daring to exclaim it out loud for he had no idea how long he would have carried the guilt of waking his squad-mates all for the sake of cursing himself for such sin.

Slipping his calloused fingers beneath the cover of the journal, he closed it with a firm yet gentle hand, pressing his hand flat against the cover, gritting his teeth. For a brief moment, it felt similar to the throat of a human being, his grip only tightening, fingers curling around the edge with the intent of neutralising himself and his thoughts. And the journal permitted it without a wretch, a gasp, without clawing at his arms. 

It was peaceful. Everything he wasn’t. 

A dull ache radiated through his jaw and his hold softened as he lifted his hand up to brush his fingers against the course flesh of his face, fingertips pressing into the lumped flesh which branded the bridge of his nose.

There were many horrors; he had seen too much for one life, perhaps even enough to fuel a thousand lives. To live further and past the body he was living in there and then was too much for him, however, and he settled back against the wooden chair he was perched in, the arms of it sinking between the makeshift floorboards and into the mud below.

There wasn’t much to do at night, sometimes, a graceful rarity it was for a soldier to sit and just… be. 

Snatching the journal, he took it and rested it against his lap, bleary eyes closing, the chair creaking as it took more of his weight. Mere was the man who existed in the pages of that journal, although he was anything but with his towering frame, enough to engulf even the tallest men in his field — a position of power seemed feasible for him and, he often humoured himself with the idea that it was his height and size that got him his position as opposed to the skill he exerted since joining the cadets in his early teens. 

Beneath his journal, splayed out on the table was the Captain’s map, stained and muck filled. It made no sound when he folded it anymore, folding into itself like a shirt, the paper soft and malleable. It was handy, of course, for silence was a benefit, although the paper had began to wilt, the map of France subsequently fading with each use of it. In fact, when he cast his eyes on it, he realised that most of the original image that had been printed was non-existent, and it had been the work of his Sergeant and his skilled hand that had breathed new life into it, consequently breathing new life into their brigade. 

He began to doze off, sitting in the chair in spite of the discomfort.

It would have been better, maybe, if he moved into one of the makeshift cots; at least then he wouldn’t be burdened by the feeling of the wooden spine digging into his own.

Only, discomfort had become a new home to him, so familiar and so firm that he hadn't the mouth to complain about his situation; he was alive and he was lucky to feel the dull ache in his spine.

Even the rumbling of his stomach was a privilege; some men were left rotting in the field, destined to spend out the rest of their days without ever feeling the pleasures of a full stomach or hearing the chirp of a songbird amongst the rustling of trees moving in the wind. 

‘Captain Price, come in.’

He startled awake at the sound of the radio, noting that the snoring which almost rattled their makeshift abode came to an end with a choke gargle. Lifting his head, he eyed the radio sitting on the edge of the desk, taking it in his paw-like hand. Pressing down on the slim black button on the front of it, he brought it to his mouth. 

‘Lieutenant Riley speaking. Over.’ 

It took a moment, the grumbling of static filling the dead space before a voice appeared on the other side of the radio. ‘Where’s the Captain?’ 

He hadn’t the opportunity to respond as there was the squelch of booted feet behind him, a snort rumbling the chest of the bearded man who collected a mouthful of phlegm, spitting it out onto the floor. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, snatching the radio off his Lieutenant. 

‘Here,’ he confirmed, glancing at his Lieutenant. 

‘There’s been a change of plans, Troops have been ordered to evacuate.’ 

He watched as the Captain’s brows furrowed, calloused fingers tugging at his beard. He said nothing for a moment, clearing his throat before saying, ‘pardon?’ 

‘Jerry’s have us backed into the corners — per the request of General Gort, you are to fall back to Dunkirk.’

Momentarily, the Captain seemed troubled by the request of the man on the radio. He knew he had never been one who who had desired to be backed into a corner, even if death was certain, he would have sooner accepted his fate whilst wielding a pistol in his hand than running from the threat he had swore he would destroy.

And they were unruly — the German forces.

This was not the surprise he had thought it to be by the look on the Captain’s face for the ache in his bones was enough to tell him that things were going wrong. 

Eventually, he said, ‘roger that.’ 

‘Get your men and make it there as quickly as possible, Captain.’ 

With that, the line went dead, leaving the pair of them standing, staring at the map on the table. From behind the pair of them, there was the shifting of clothes, a groggy voice calling out into the darkness. ‘We’re leavin’?’ 

‘Per the request of the General,’ said the Captain, hooking the radio on his belt, rubbing his face with his hands. 

‘Fuck me, it’s really that bad, ay?’ said the Scot, sitting up from where he had been lying, grabbing the helmet he had rested by his bedside, ‘never thought we’d be the one’s retreating — that ain’t our job.’ 

‘Nothing we can do about it, Sergeant,’ Price said grimly, ‘pack up; we’re leaving in ten.’ 

They didn’t argue with the request of their Captain, knowing that, if they wished to survive, then they would have to keep their reservations to themselves and listen to what they were told; they were soldiers after all.

He readied himself with haste, tucking his journal into  his rucksack, fingertips hovering over the leather cover of it before pulling the drawstrings of his bag together, and closing the flap. Pushing himself off the ground, we watched as the other men worked expertly — his brothers in arms, the mumbled conversation between both the sergeants filling the quiet of the night.

The dugout they’d found themselves in was right in toe with Luxembourg having been left to time ever since the first World War. It was a convenient hiding spot, one they had stumbled upon by accident whilst trekking through the French Countryside. Although it was a ghost of its former self as grass had grown over the majority of it, the people in the City of Nancy hadn’t cared to cover it. He imagined children had made good fun out of the space as it was tucked away from the mainland of the city itself. 

He was the first to step outside, peering up the slight hill to see the moonlight illuminating the land before him. Crickets chimed, the occasional buzzing of an insect passing his ears.

It was a peculiar peacefulness, knowing that the enemy was advancing and, yet, all was quiet.

His hand drifted to his belt, finger grazing the Mauser he had snatched from the corpse of a German Officer. It was much heavier, clearly more expensive than the revolver he had been carrying with himself, although, he didn’t need a gun.

It was a commodity, a trophy and proof he reigned victorious over a man who was the equivalent of a savage dog.

He barked and barked, spitting at him as he waved the gun in his face, all for it to be the bullet he had threatened him with that eventually killed him.

Someone might have thought that he was trying to push his ranks, to mirror that he was better than he believed, but all that was nonsense to the Lieutenant — he just wanted to survive. 

The Captain and his Sergeants soon appeared outside the dugout, the map in the hands of the Captain whilst the youngest of their squad held a lantern to it. With a thick finger, he moved it across the map as he schemed. ‘We’ll fall back and follow the rivers, it’ll be a straight line until we hit Dunkirk, and we’ll have plenty drinking water.’

‘Aye, sounds like a plan.’ 

And thus, they started their journey, climbing up from the dugout with a grunt as their bones were weary, Johnny barking out a laugh as he watched the Captain in particular huff and puff.

Really, the man, whether or not he’d want to admit it to them, was still half asleep, so his sluggish movement, while humorous, were not a cause for concern. In fact, when he made it back on his feet, a firm slap was delivered to the back of MacTavish’s head before he handed him the map, the man taking it whilst also grumbling out an insult as he dipped his hands into the pocket of his jacket, retrieving a tin of cigars.

Similar to how the Lieutenant had uncovered the Mauser his hand was stationed over, the Captain had also part-took in robbing the deserving dead. He reacted like a child on Christmas when he uncovered the tin of cigars the man had kept in his pocket, taking them for his own with a grin, continuing to pat the man down until he uncovered a box of matches. Everything else on the man: his watch, his canteen, cutlery — everything — was ignored as he pulled away from the corpse, mustered a mouthful of phlegm and spat on the corpse with a sneer, waving the box of matches about in the air. 

He’d kept the tin since the day he killed that soldier, and as they began their journey, he opened the tin and put one in his mouth. The match sparked with a sizzling hiss, and the man puffed at the cigar as he held the match to the tip of it, awaiting for it to catch fire.

When it did, smoke billowed from the tip of it as it glowed red, acting almost as a guide in the darkness, rivalling the dim lamp Sergeant Garrick was holding. As they tread through the land, he realised that it was much later than he had thought, knowing that his sleepless nights were sure to catch up with him. A faint smile formed on his face. He could see his death certificate right there. 

Cause of death: journaling. 

Ironically, he’d never thought of himself to be much of a writer, his handwriting equivalent to that of a primary school child’s, although, he had never been given much of a chance to see if he even had a knack for it due to the firm hand of his father; That’s girl stuff.

Since the war had begun, however, he found his late nights were spent sitting and staring at the sky, whether or not he could see the moon and stars varied depending on their location, and all he would do was think. 

‘You not sleep again, Lt?’ 

MacTavish’s voice tore through the darkness and, when he turned his head, he saw the man looking at him with beady eyes and a smile. ‘I got a little shut eye.’ 

‘Pfft,’ scoffed the Scot, ‘sure ya did… that book I give you helpin’?’ 

He thought about the journal in his rucksack, the one he’d massacred with his pen, scrawling words into it with a closed fist and gritted teeth.

It brought out a derangement in him, something he hoped would be smothered and discarded sooner rather than later. Instead, it crawled onto the pages, curled up like a cat and made its home in the rivulets he created from his fury. 

‘It’s alright,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Just a book, after all.’ 

‘Ye a terrible sceptic, Lt,’ said the man with a shake of his head. 

For a moment, he felt compelled to repeat what he had been taught when he was a child, his father’s words on the tip of his tongue. Yet, he quelled the rage that man had planted in him, chewing on the inside of his mouth until he was sure every single piece of that sentence was on its way to burn in the acid of his stomach.

‘Nothing wrong with it, Johnny.’ 

The other man hummed, nodding his head in disbelief, ‘there’s everything wrong with it, Lt. You written any letters to home, yet?’

‘Not got the handwriting for that.’ 

‘Sure they’d be able to decipher whatever code you’d write down for them — hell, ye could probably send your mam a letter which just had a scribble on it and she’d be relieved to know that you’re still alive and kickin’.’ 

‘Have you written home?’ 

‘Once at the start,’ said the man, ‘got a letter back off my mam, though, tellin’ me I ought to keep in touch cause she’s worried sick. Never did get the chance to write to her after that, so I can only imagine the beating that’s waiting for me when I finally get back home.’ His mouth curled upwards and he chuckled, glancing down at his boots as his hands settled against his hips. ‘Part of me hopes I don’t make it home; my mam’s scarier than all the Jerry’s combined.’ 

Lieutenant Riley didn’t so much as smile at his remark of him willing his own death.

Instead, he looked beyond the pair of them, noting the Captain and Garrick were but a few paces in front of them, seeming to be having a conversation of their own.

They had set off in such a hurry that, when he turned his head to glance behind him, the dugout they had called home for that night had been consumed entirely by a mixture of the dark and shrubbery.

He knew Price was keen on getting ahead of other squads who had definitely gotten the same call as they had; he always had to be certain that they would be okay.

The smoke from the Captain’s cigar occasionally wafted past both himself and Johnny.

Again, MacTavish laughed and said, ‘that’s how mam’s are though.’ 

The man walking beside him nodded. ‘I suppose.’ 

They walked until the sun rose, taking a brief water break at the River Meuse (according to the directions of the map they were following).

His hands trembled as he unscrewed the lid of his canteen, holding it beneath the rushing water, whilst Garrick stood guard, having discarded the lantern he had been carrying during the early hours of the morning, instead, holding a revolver in his hand, surveying the surrounding woodland.

Johnny had his canteen and was filling it up for him. The water break lasted all of five minutes because Price was ordering that they continue onwards, to get further into the countryside.

Their conversation died soon after, all of them walking silently with one another. Already, in spite of the war merely existing for a year, there had been plenty things that had stuck in his head which seemed determined to rot him from the inside out. 

One thing in particular had been when he had been searching through, what he believed to be at the time, an abandoned house, looking for supplies.

The house was in the middle of nowhere and they were hungry.

The house was cold when they’d entered, having been sometime back in December and the smell was blatant the moment they stepped inside the house.

It reeked of death.

Something had died, it was just a matter of discovering what it was.

Suddenly, in that moment, the thought of food left all their minds and, as they wondered through the house, they searched each room, finding the remnants of a family dinner on the table, three of the four chairs pulled out. Flies festered on the rotting food and, for a moment, Garrick had attempted to reassure all of them by stating that it must have been the food which was causing such a stench. Still, their search persisted to the upstairs of the home and, when he opened the first door, he uncovered a tragedy. 

In bed, tucked away were the bodies of two children — they couldn’t have been much older than four, maybe five years old, and they were lying there, perfectly still. But, rather than holding the typical rosiness shown in the cheeks of a child, their skin was green, discoloured, ruined by a rot which had began to devour their bodies.

He’d noticed that, on both of the girls, there had been a rosary settled against their chests, their small hands moved as though to clasp them.

None of them had a reaction, turning pale faced out of the room, focusing their attention on the other room in the hall. Johnny left back downstairs, deeming that he had seen all he had needed to seen.

Simon was not surprised to see a pool of vomit in the grass outside of the small countryside home when they did eventually leave.

And, really, he had made the right choice for, when he ventured into the other room, he found the body of an older woman.

A shotgun rested in her lap, congealed blood pooling in the fabric of her apron, what remained of her head from the shotgun blast gathered down against her lap. Garrick couldn’t keep himself from gasping, slapping his hand over his mouth. It was a blood bath. It was brutal, and it had only been three months since the war had started.

Neither of them saw the merit of remaining in the house — Price and Garrick — and they followed after Johnny, all while Simon stayed, stating that he wished to see if the shotgun had any ammunition remaining in it.

He was left to his own devices, and when he moved towards the body, he stilled at the sight of an envelope resting against the dresser with the name ‘Louis’ scrawled neatly on the front of it. He took it in his hands and opened it. A letter was on the inside of it, detailing the reasoning to her actions. Of course, it being written in French meant that he hadn’t a single chance of understanding it, but he knew enough to know that she was very sorry for what she had done to, not only herself, but the children in the bed as the word ‘désolée’ appeared on multiple occasions, hell, the letter even ended with words that he thought of often. 

Désolée, je vous aime

Charlotte

He put the letter back on the nightstand, inside the envelope he had taken it from. The shotgun, in the end, had no ammunition left in it, so he left it in the lap of the dead woman, and walked out of the house without telling them of the letter he had found. None of them spoke of that house, even after stepping outside, he was not questioned on why he had not taken the shotgun. Instead, they continued on their endeavour, heading further and further into the French countryside. 

A similar horror faced him at that moment as he noticed Garrick had stopped in his tracks, eyes trained on something in the distance.

It had been a while since the lake as the sun had moved from being in the centre of the sky and, when he looked down at the watch around his wrist, he read the time as being 6 pm. Truly, the time had moved quickly, quicker than he had realised, but it seemed to still when he caught the tension on his squad-mates brow.

He stared without a word and, when Simon’s eyes followed his path, he found that he was staring at a lonesome tree a couple feet in front of them. They were at the end of a dense woodland, the placement of the trees being fewer and further between, and, when he cast his eyes, he found something hanging.

Not rope, not a body, not an animal, but something.

It was Garrick who said exactly what it was through a pained breath. ‘It’s an arm — a human arm.’

Simon squinted slightly, the shape of the pasty limb finally connecting with his eyes.

It was an arm, hooked on a branch of a tree.

They stood far enough for there to be no blatant sign of gore, had they not been in the middle of a war, he would’ve been inclined to believe that it was the arm of a mannequin.

The hand was tilted downwards, fingers hanging limply with no intention of bracing itself to keep it from falling, and with the size of the hand, the assumption of it belonging to a child would not have been unjust. His eyes fell from the limb in the tree back onto Garrick, watching as he clamoured for the canteen sitting at his waist. He unscrewed the lid with haste, lapping water from it as though he had been starved of the privilege for an eternity. Simon knew he was doing it to keep himself from vomiting, but left his observation to himself. Mactavish patted the man on his back, kick starting him once more and they continued with haste on their journey. 

There were tracks in the mud when they passed the tree bearing human flesh, although, he’d believed it to have been the tracks of an animal as opposed to that of a human’s. Price stopped a few paces beyond the tree. 

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Garrick. 

‘It’s gonna get dark soon, we needa find somewhere to stay,’ said the Captain, looking down at the map he’d kept bunched in his hands. 

‘I’d be shocked if there’s anywhere round here that hasn’t been blown to pieces, Cap,’ said the Sergeant, brown eyes peering back at the tree. ‘We might have to camp out.’ 

‘Suppose so,’ said the man, sucking up a breath.

‘Aye,’ said Johnny, ‘you never know though, Gaz, might be something round here. These farm folk are tough.’ 

Price handed the map to Johnny and lit another cigar, wordlessly marching on. The three of them followed after him without so much as a peep, a warm breeze worsening the dampness of the Lieutenants uniform.

Nothing had changed in their dynamic, falling into the routine without a complaint even when they had first been group together, granted, when they had first been matched, he had looked upon John MacTavish with a slight contempt having experienced him and his humour during his time as a Cadet.

The news that he had been paired with him was met with a resounding sigh, a puff of air so loud that the Scotsman laughed allowed as he bumped Simon’s shoulder with his fist, remarking, ‘it’s a pleasure, Lt. Truly.’

He responded with something sarcastic, something he couldn’t remember for the sake of him for Johnny and his reactions absorbed all space in his mind concerning his memories of their meeting. His words were too loud, too boisterous — his quiet dig wouldn’t have stood a chance.

No way in hell.

Price and Gaz had been different for they seemed to be well acquainted and, when they’d been asked about it by Johnny (of course), Price said, ‘Saw him first day, shitting himself, figured he was a little young, all for him to tell me he had been in the military for ten years.’ Even then, that hadn’t stopped him from taking him under his wing as he said, ‘no one questioned it considering the rank — thought he was a good addition.’

Gaz then chimed in and said, ‘they reckon I mellow him out.’

His words were met with the rolling of the Captain’s eyes as he was asked, ‘you mockin’ me?’

They asked Simon questions too, but he shot them down with a mumbled response.

Simply, he was there to do his job, and his job was not telling stories.

It was to kill Jerry’s and make it home knowing that his Country was safe thanks to his efforts.

As they moved further up the slight hill they had found themselves at, the sky grew to develop an orange tint, signalling that night would be upon them soon and the ought to have picked up the pace if they wanted to uncover some sort of shelter for the night. It was then, on the horizon, that the group spotted a white picket fence, behind it, a red barn.

Shelter.

The greenery rose and dipped like waves in the ocean, this supposed farm located on one of the higher peaks, golden beams of sunlight illuminating it as though nature, or maybe even the hand of God, was attempting to pivot them in the direction of it.

Confirmation that they would try their luck with it was found as they all gave each other a firm nod, moving with a particular spring in their step, bounding down the grassy hill and towards the farm. They rounded random shrubbery and trees, treading on the occasional shotgun shell. The mud was different from the marsh they’d encountered as it had been relatively dry during their time in the City of Nancy, this pattern continuing on the further they got into the countryside.

As they ebbed closer and closer to the farm yard, the Lieutenant tracked the sound of a child’s laughter from behind a few of the trees by the property.

Soon, they arrived to the first row of fences they had seen when on the hill, spying a little girl who was being chased by a dog. It was black and white, yapping excitedly as it leaped around her excitedly, tail wagging as it snagged at the skirt of her dress.

The girl squealed, flapping her hands about, small hand swatting the dog on its head as she pouted, spouting something in French.

Facing the barn, where the girl was playing, was a small cottage. The door to which was opened, and out stepped an older looking woman. Her features were still notably older — old enough to be the young girls mother, he’d thought to himself.

Dressed in a black frock with a brown apron tied around her waist, a look of frustration marked her face as she shooed the dog away with a few harsh words.

It did as demanded, leaping away from her, all for the little girl to go chasing after it. The woman then stood and just stared, shaking her head at they continued to play together. It was when the young girl turned and saw the four men at the fence that her laughter stopped and she returned to the woman, exclaiming out panicked words as she sprinted up to her, acting as though she had seen a monster. The woman turned her head, seemingly skeptical, until she followed the little girls hand and saw the four of them approaching the fence.

She, unlike her young counterpart, was not fearful as she approached the four of them, shaking her head. 

’No, no, no,’ she said, her accent thick, waving her hands about. 

Price was the first to speak since he knew more of the language than any of them, saying something along the lines of 'we need somewhere to stay for the night.'

It was clear that he was adamant on not taking no for an answer. He spoke to the woman again in French, this time much more insistent. His accent was still very much gruff, Northern, but the woman seemed to understand what he said as she responded with a resounding ‘No.’

Again, he responded to her, mentioning something about France.

She continued her refusal as she shook her head like a maniac. The Captain seemed taken aback by her response as he took a step back from the fence. He then warned her about the impending threat of the Germans. 

A smile formed on her wrinkled face as she shook her head, her laughter unsettling as she continued to speak to the man. Price, in response to the woman, climbed the fence and they followed suit.

The dog, that had been yapping, betrayed the cause as it stopped right beside  Johnny, rolling over on its stomach. With delight, the man crouched down into the grass, rubbing its belly. It wriggled in the grass as the man continued, a gleeful chuckle leaving his mouth. He was knocked by his Lieutenants boot, and when he lifted his head, he was greeted with his narrow eyes. In an instant, he was up off the ground, all while the dog remained on the ground, panting. 

Price only continued with his pleads. 

The woman’s mouth formed a straight line as she looked upon the four of them and then over her shoulder at the barn.

Simon said, ‘Please; if you don’t help us, we’ll get it for ourselves.’ 

The woman huffed as though she understood what he had said to her, turning her back to the four of them stating words fuelled by venom. It sounded like a threat, he thought, and he took it to be such.

Surprisingly, in spite of her presumed hostility, she lead proceeded to lead them to the barn. It was a small distance from the house and, when she made it to the entrance, she removed the wooden plank which kept the doors to the barn closed, shoving the door open with a huff.

‘I’ll talk to your husband,’ Price said to the woman as he walked into the barn. 

The woman chuckled, saying something briefly, waving her hand about in the direction of the Captain. She left it at that, turning with such force that her skirt moved outwards, curling at her ankles as she headed back towards the quaint cottage in the distance. \

Simon watched her as she left, all while Johnny and Garrick were quick to situate themselves in a pile of hay, arms and legs spread as though they were laying in the comfort of  a bed in an expensive hotel. Price, on the other hand, made a table out of hay bales, setting an old gate which had been discarded to against on of them empty stables. 

Simon didn’t move from the door to the barn, noticing a small face in the window of the cottage. It wasn’t the face of the child, nor was it the face of her alleged mother, rather, someone else. He narrowed his eyes upon catching sight of the face, the hairs on his neck standing when his eyes locked with hers. In an instance, like a phantom, they disappeared, the only proof of their existence being the gentle swaying of the laced, white curtains.

‘Seriously, Cap’n?’

Johnny’s voice beckoned him out of his trance and he looked over his shoulder, seeing the man observing the makeshift table Price had made up. The older man shrugged his rucksack off, dropping it on the ground. 

‘Might as well be comfy while we’re here,’ he said, rubbing his hands against his beard. It had grown significantly, as had all of their facial hair i the time they had been away, and he read Simon’s mind when he said, ‘what I’d do for a razor and basin of hot water.’ 

‘Tell me about it,’ said Kyle, sinking further and further into the pile of hay with his eyes closed, massaging his temple, ‘used to hate having to share the bathroom back home but I’d do anything to be in the bath hearing my mum pounding on the door tellin’ me to hurry up,’ he deflated, and under his breath, he mumbled, ‘I miss her.’

His hand settled against his stomach as it grumbled loud enough for all the men in the barn to hear. ‘You know, she used to make the best toast in the world. I used to tell her she was costin’ us a fortunate cause of how much strawberry jam she’d put on it,’ he explained, keeping his eyes closed, hands settled against his stomach as it gurgled at the description. A death by his own hands, yet, he couldn’t stop himself. ‘One whole shilling for a jar of that jam, and she’d go through it in three days… she must be going crazy without it.’ 

Johnny frowned and said, ‘she’ll get a jar of it soon enough,’ nodding to himself, ‘cause we’re gonna win this.’ 

‘Unless we get murdered by the owner of this farm,’ Simon said, immediately earning a groan from both the Sergeants. 'What? You heard the lady, she wasn't happy at all.'

‘Can tell you’ve never been happy a single day in your life, Lt,’ remarked Garrick. 

‘And you’d be right in saying that, Serg,’ he confirmed.

Their dry mouths were no more as, thanks to the mention of Garrick’s mother’s famous toast, all four of them settled on the ground, gathered around the makeshift table that Johnny had initially mocked.

In the time between the woman disappearing and their nostalgia, the Captain had even went through the trouble of placing the half burnt candle Simon had been using earlier that day whilst he’d been writing in the dugout, using one of his matches to light it. He extinguished the flame by blowing it out, setting the match against the table. Price filled the space by mentioning to them just how adamant the woman had been concerning them leaving. 

‘Knowing our look, they’ll end up being on the side of the Jerry’s — wouldn’t put it past them. They don’t know better, living out here and all,’ said Johnny, getting a cheap laugh at the possibility that they were going to end up being the meal served around their family table that night. 

‘Keep your weapons handy,’ was all Simon said, choosing to leave it at that. 

Price didn’t try to pitch in, instead, he settled his hand against his revolver, patting it like the head of a loyal steed. 

‘I hope she brings us food,’ said Gaz. 

As though he had summoned it, there was a quaint, quiet knock on the door, and they all turned to face the door. For a moment, there was no one, until the door was cautiously pushed open.

A young woman stepped in dressed in a white frock, peering at the four men with a white sheen across her face. 

The face in the window, thought Simon, it was you. 

You came bearing gifts as you held in your hands a basket covered by a towel, slowly moving towards the four men, setting it down on the table. Upon doing so, you too knelt down onto the ground, dirtying your frock as you brought your finger to your mouth. It was clear, in spite of the barriers, that you wished for them to keep your act of kindness between them, a mischievous smile causing the apples of your cheeks to perk up as you pulled the cloth from off of the basket revealing a bottle of wine, five glasses, two loaves of bread, cheese, and two apples.

Johnny happily took the bottle of wine, ‘merci.’ 

You nodded happily, holding out a wine glass to him. You did so for all the men, until you reached Simon. Your hand was shaking, he noticed, when you extended it out to him, and, when he took the glass off you, briefly, his fingers brushed against yours.