deercountry | 🦅 🦅 🦅

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[ when reality seems to settle, the odor of this place is the first to shoot the senses awake. it smells of soot, dirt and gunpowder; it smells of horrid living conditions, iron, of humidity and poor hygiene. most are here out of necessity, not purpose. before the visiting sleeper can register that they have the metal handle of a shovel in their hands and a rifle slung across their shoulders, the high whistle of a bird emits from above the group’s head. the whistle becomes a growing, rapidly approaching shriek that scatters some men— and blows the rest away in the blink of an eye.

dirt erupts and throws plenty off their feet and so does the sound of this place: rapid gunfire, explosives, the mute ringing in your ears of a bomb shell that had just thrown your entire squad away. getting up to your feet would clear some of the smoky vision: you’re in a trench, or what could’ve been a trench, in the process of being dug right to the front lines. men have had their limbs blown apart, gore splatters the battlefield from the halved torsos of comrades still holding their shovels. it almost seems as if there are no survivors to aid at this point and the best course to take would be to run to cover, before the enemy reloads their arsenal.

there is movement out there, at last: a small thing, a young boy barely in his teens, but dawning the same muddy uniform as you are now. he barely moves, but his mouth parts, mumbling hallucinations as he speaks to the hawk circling above their chaotic world in search of scraps, and reaches for it, wishing deathly that it were him. ]

Hey . . . You’ve got wings, so— Fly away . . .

[Paul lies on his back and watches the same hawk, breathing slowed and deepened as he rides out the searing in his left shoulder. His ears are ringing from the blast, his whole body somehow made tender and strange by concussive force.

He had barely been in the dream before he heard the whistling, a sound he recognized instantly as that of a falling projectile. He was already running when he reached to activate his body shield and found it missing, still running when the bombshell rent the world apart. Paul has never been this close to a bomb going off, but the training for a fall is the same - the immense battering sensory overload of the explosion not enough to overcome reflex. So he hit the ground well, with only a tearing pop in his shoulder.

As he feels the blood dampening his already mud-soaked uniform, Paul thinks dizzily that at least the crystals have finally broken skin, the longest and most intact of them that had laid just along his shoulderblade now splintered and tearing into soft flesh. He'll be able to show Palamedes later.

Assuming he survives now. It's only been a few seconds since the blast, but that's already an eternity. Nothing in him wants to get up. He gets up anyway, rolling onto his side and pushing up with his right arm. The left one still works, nothing structural damaged, so he ignores the pain that runs all the way down his arm along a major nerve.

That's when he notices the other soldier still alive in this devastation. Two impulses occur to Paul, his thoughts bomb-tilted, but the kinder one wins out. With no shield (and that's a question, there are many of them, but they can wait) he moves to minimize himself as a target, half-crouched and unpredictable. He bends over the other soldier on his knees - a very young one, he realizes - and looks to see if he's going to survive.]

Come on. Get up.

[Paul supports him as he starts to pull the boy up, wrapping his right arm underneath his back so he can cup the back of his head in his good hand. He half-expects him to fall apart in his arms, for some glaring injury to reveal itself. He seems too small for anything else.]

[ by a miracle (or just a dose of luck), the boy’s body is unscathed from anything life threatening, but easily lightweight to lift. besides a couple of deeper scrapes and hematomas, the only glaring injury was to falco’s temple; blood slid from the blow where he had landed right on his head. the rest, arms, legs— no broken bones, no grizzly amputations and nothing missing. perhaps, he’s only missing some of his clarity, shown to eyes that put up a fight to open and stay open. he looks as if he’s about to fall asleep, squinting to make out the spinning blur that comes over him. he even slurs his words, soft amidst the growing background ambience of gunfire only accelerating. ]

Brother—?

[ it should be, it’s how he remembers this, but it was a young man that may share colt’s age, but not appearance; his hair is as dark as bark and hardly as clipped as the regular soldiers keep them. never mind that— more importantly, falco does attempt to steady a foot and then the other.

his whole world spins again and his balance tilts sideways into a fall if he were to be left on his own, only using the other’s shoulder to grip consciously and with concern: ]

Be careful, sir . . .

[ a soldier not too far in front of them is running back to the trenches with his back turned— and immediately shot down. ]

[This situation, Paul decides, is untenable. This memory is too dangerous, this soldier not prepared for it. Paul isn't prepared for it, forced into vulnerability by its constraints. He catches the boy's weight easily, biting the tip of his tongue as it jars his shoulder, and thinks that at least he doesn't have to shed more blood as he reaches for the threads of power to pull them sideways and clear of this false reality until the stag comes to signal its end -

- and they slip from his reach like darting minnows, and it's then the fear comes. He seizes it by the throat as it rises, forces it back down, but now, he's really here, present in the moment, and this moment is going to kill them both if he doesn't stop trying to play with new toys.

Everything clarifies. The biting sting of bomb-smoke in the eyes, the stink of bodies burst and broken, the sounds of a war being fought in a frenzied confusion of crude projectiles.

He pulls the boy down with him and more drags than guides him to the closest cover, the bombshell crater. He sets him against the edge closest to where the shots are being fired from, as protected as possible, and pulls a rifle (he lost his, somewhere in the blast) from a dead man's hand. It's a primitive weapon, but not difficult to understand, and he leans his back against the dirt next to the boy and checks it for damage. His voice is clipped and direct:]

Where's your fallback position? And don't you dare pass out on me.

[The head injury has to have something to do with it, Paul theorizes, and finds the bullets in his soldier's kit. The rifle is still loaded, unfired, but if he needs more he won't be left wanting. If he lets the boy fall unconscious he can't predict what will happen. (He's so small, his body so light.)]

[ the rattling discord that war lugs with it wherever it went was as present as the danger and palpability of those bullets from a post held up on fort slava, buckled down by the armored train that circled the vicinity the eldian vanguard was trying to punch past (and failed). the projectiles could graze, puncture and tear. easily enough, falco goes down into the shell’s remains like a ragdoll and manages to right himself.

the man is speaking to him, he can hear some of it over the bare humming in his head that threatened to make him feel all the more lightweight, as if he’d indeed fly. falco breathes hard as his reflexes begin to pick up the pace and scramble into half a panic. not entirely out of where he was (well, partially; it’s impossible to keep a completely sound mind unless you’re endlessly trained for it), but out of how it felt like his thoughts, his consciousness— they couldn’t keep up the way he’d like.

he doesn’t know how to answer, but fights his way through his escalated panting and disorientation to stay awake. stay awake. ]

Trench— D-deer Country, [ that was it, but it also wasn’t. he tries again, flattens his back and pounding head against the little wall they had protecting them to turn his head to the elder boy— yelling right over another charged round of fire coming to an end. ] hiding trench, front line—! 30 meters back from here!

[ he has no rifle, it was blown too far out of their vicinity to reach. but, he did have bullets in his own pouches, rushing to open them up and offer them to the other (now) soldier). ]

[Paul takes the bullets from the boy's hands quickly and not entirely gently, his eyes sharp with intensity. Thirty meters. On flat ground, unburdened, straight line, he could make it in less than five seconds. Factoring in the constraints here, he estimates - an amount of time theoretically less than half a minute, in practical terms an eternity.

(If he leaves the boy, he'd be faster. Paul ignores this thought alongside the thoughts about how the boy called for his brother, or why this army is issuing bullets to children - worse than useless, a decision of incompetence, desperation, or both.)]

Listen to me. [Paul puts the rifle up at his side and turns to look at the boy, eyes narrowed.] When it's time, we're going to go. I'm going to pick you up. You're going to make yourself as small as you can- [Paul raises a hand to the boy's line of sight and makes it into a fist, to emphasize his point] -and stay still.

[He reaches under his own chin and starts undoing the buckle of his helmet, all while listening to the sounds of gunfire, estimating distance and angle as best he can:] Now say it back. What's going to happen?

[ falco tries his absolute best to listen through the pounding in his head and the clamoring above them. when he swallows, his ears pop and the side of his face dirty with blood from his crown still slipping and staining the shoulder of his uniform. he wipes the side, close to an ear with the back of his hand, just so it doesn’t reach his eyes— but said eyes never leave paul.

there’s slight, unspoken objection in them. it was one thing to have his brother haul him away when he was hardly coherent. this other— this other was pulled here, and falco seems more awake than ever, if not unsteady with his equilibrium. a death sentence, for the time being.

he swallows tight, raises his voice past his huffing and speaks straight, no stuttering, as if speaking to an officer above him. ]

We’re going to move. You’re going to pick me up, and I’m going to make myself as small as I can.

[ if anything, he’s an obedient boy, and he knows that this may be the only chance he’d have. that they’d have, considering the stranger didn’t have to worry for him. no one beyond his family did, and if he tried to play stubborn hero, he’d get them both killed. would they come back from that? ]

I’m going to stay still.

That's right.

[Paul puts his helmet on the boy's lap, for the time being - if he doesn't put it on his own head, Paul is going to put it there before they go, and he's not going to tolerate a fight - and brings his hand to his left shoulder, runs his fingers up to the place in his neck where a thick bundle of nerves lie. A true prana-bindu master can apply a nerve block with their will alone. Paul has to use his index and ring finger to help. He takes a deep belly-breath, aligns himself, and before he can imagine how much it's going to hurt, he does it.

His back and arm light up with a lightning sheet of agony, and he breathes out sharply through his nose, eyes closed. It subsides, and he is numbed from shoulder to pinky, his three outside fingers on his left hand rendered all but useless, the pulling force of the arm neutered. But he only needs to be able to pick the boy up, and none of that matters.]

Get ready. It's going to be soon. And put the helmet on. [His voice is sharpened by pain, raised over the constant raging sound, but his eyes are closer to gentle when he looks at the boy this time.] I'm going to get us both out of this.

[ falco’s fingers press into iron until the tips go white and he jolts in place, worried, frightened and unprepared for whatever it was that paul had just done. for a second, the boy began to assume he was hit with something, debris or a ricochet, rushes to his knees and runs on the instinct to check for bullet wounds, for blood, for first aid— there was nothing his knowledge would attend to. ]

What did you do—? You’re—! [ in pain. painful. but his eyes and the resolve in them speaks truth that falco considers himself a good judge of character for. they’d have to speak later, now wasn’t the time for him to ask questions or cascade his concern for this complete stranger who’s shown him the same care only his family ever has. it’s rare, and odd, but he accepts it with his heart open as he tips his head down and flips the helmet onto the crown of his injury. of course, he looks at him, face to face and eye to eye one last time with a shimmering veil tempting him to feel like crying. he doesn’t, swallows it dry, but adds, prepared and tucked into himself: ] Thank you.

[ he’s ready, and he’s ready to wrap his arms around paul’s neck, or at the very least grasp at the clothes he’ll soon find himself closest to to help the other’s grip. ]

[It hadn't occurred to Paul the boy would react like this, too focused on the steps he needed to take next for those thirty meters. He stares at him, shocked, as the boy flings himself at him in concern. And the look in his eye when he does makes Paul's stomach drop and twist fiercely, a fear that has nothing to do with his own safety welling up.

He reaches for the boy's shoulders with both hands, to prove he's all right, gently presses his thumbs underneath the boy's collarbones. It's something his father used to do to steady him; Paul doesn't realize that until he's already done it.]

Not yet.

[To thank you, it's no response, except that his voice is determined, intended to calm. Not yet, because there's going to be a later, because he's all right and they'll be all right.

It may not be clear what cues Paul to move when he does, what combination of sounds and impacts fall into the arrangement he's been waiting for. He wouldn't be able to precisely describe it, in so many words. It's just - time. He pulls the boy into his arms (and makes sure his arms are secure around his neck) and darts towards the trench in an explosive burst.

He doesn't think, the entire stretch. He doesn't see the bodies he weaves past. He doesn't hear the firing of guns. He keeps his head down and his mind in battle-clarity, a state of pure action and reaction, and he runs.

When they finally, miraculously slide into the muddy trench, Paul thinks he's never run so long in his life. He collapses against the wall, his body shaking, arms surely painfully tight around the boy, his shoulder a cold fire, and tries very hard to remember how to breathe.]

[ it was the type of sprint that felt too long, never ending even. falco’s grip is on him tight while he keeps his legs tucked and back curved. small as he could. the next loaded round of bullets fling right past them, always at paul’s heels and picking up dust; a second slower and they’d be taken out just as their retreating comrades are. the plunge into the trench is brisk and pitiless— much covered and hitting harsh, trampled spots of dirt below. falco’s breathing had only escalated from the adrenaline, but it was paul he was worried about, heaving and rattling under his hold and until now, a constructed one that would’ve never let him go out there, not even if they tripped.

the helmet is off, they’re safe now, even a small group of three children falco’s age come running to take him in, dump water on his head, ask if he’s drunk— ]

I’m fine, now! [ this man, he was the one who needed attention, stretching his limbs once more to get to the ground and check paul. ] Now, now I got you, please let me check you—

[ medical supplies, he calls for them, and a boy with glasses rushes to retrieve them for falco. their commander— mageth— steps out from the covered safety route of the trench, the “rooms”, and hardly seems to bat a lash at the fact that paul had just returned from the run of his life. he’d like a progress report, and seems even distasteful to be using his spit to ask. as if he were talking to trash.

if paul were to look past the commander, he may not want to waste his voice, either, and use his chance to breathe. the antlers of the soft-glowing mourning stag climb over the trench’s horizon line, and the more it steps over the battlefield as a ghostly observer, the more he’ll know it’s almost time for them to return.

 both must return alive. that was the accomplishment of this memory. ]

[Paul gives the commander a look that in a real army might rise to the level of insubordination and then cuts his gaze away dismissively. He sees the stag, and that means he doesn't have very much time. He ignores everything else (but oh, he'll remember all of it).

Paul lets the boy look him over, using the opportunity to assess him in return. He doesn't seem worse off than he was, at least. Paul, himself, is fine. There's more blood on his left shoulder than is ideal, but the nerve block held (he might have overdone it, but he can fix it later, and it's nothing the boy will be able to notice). His calf has opened up again in two spots, but those are old injuries. There's the lockjoint, of course. So all in all, he's fine.]

I'm all right. Hey, hey - [Paul touches his shoulder again with his right hand as he stays slumped against the trench wall.] I'm all right. Listen. My name is Paul Atreides. After we get out of here, I'm going to come find you, so I need to know your name too, all right? So my omen can find yours.

[ the boy’s hand rests on the other’s shoulder, his own glance drifting toward the invading presence of the stag’s hooves kicking gravel into the trench as it approached with more of its head above them, to catch sight of them. at least, falco finds his chest deflating with some relief, but that doesn’t chip off the worry he’s got with paul’s injuries. he listens carefully— after everything, he’ll attentively stop whatever he’s doing to, and to express that he’s listening, that he’s understanding, his head bobs. his eyes never leave, only going to the other’s injury and the sight of dark crimson smudging the dirt wall.

he had to find him, he had to make that he was okay, that this wouldn’t carry over, that if this was at most, a dreamscape, then he would be alright. but only if his own eyes confirmed it. besides that—

paul just carried him across a hazardous battlefield with his own injuries to grit through. he owed him for the act, as much of a memory this was for falco. now, it was a new one. ]

It’s Falco. Falco Grice—

[ paul may have barely heard his last name, a ring, or a shadow of a dream he’d be waking up to. and just like that, the stag’s frozen, crystalline horns chime; they’re back where they were supposed to be.

but falco, too, wasn’t the only one promptly on a search for the young man as soon as he was able. he was rested, felt better than he has in days. perle, a petite pygmy falcon, is in the sky. below her is the blond boy; cloaked, armed, considering what trench was, but keeping his sights up on her to follow suit. ]

[They find each other on one of the side streets, a dark desert mouse bouncing ahead of a young man dressed head to toe in practical black who stops at the top of the street and pushes back his own hood, looking at the boy - Falco Grice - with obvious, unfiltered concern.

He'd only paused before leaving his most recent bolthole to quickly address his wounds enough to be mobile, and there's a faint hitch to his walk that would only be noticeable to someone specifically looking for it, but he seems well enough as he comes down the street to Falco after a glance at his circling bird of prey.]

Are you all right? Did it cross over?

[He starts with the practical, not knowing where else to begin, scanning the younger boy with an incisive eye. He doesn't know precisely why his own injuries cross over both ways in the memories, if it's a defect in him or a byproduct of his approach, but he hopes it's not true of Falco.

He's still so young. Paul had thought that maybe the memory was older, that he'd find someone older, and the sight of him still this age - it's unsettling in ways Paul doesn't know where to begin articulating to himself.]

[ he’s found him. before long perle circled, and as falco brought his gaze down— paul was there with a small desert mouse omen, coming towards him. ]

—Mister Paul! [ what a meeting first— second? meeting this was, already. paul would find falco is clean of injuries, bright and alert with only perhaps a smudge of paleblood he hadn’t caught in his hair when he washed it in front of a mirror— too rushed. it had crossed over, but from awakening, gathering himself and walking off, falco had also regenerated the wound clean. a personal ability of his. searching for something off the moment he’d caught sight of the young man, falco notices something off in his stride. the concern is wholeheartedly mutual, especially when it had been his memory to start. ] I-It did, but I cleaned it— I’m fine, ah, [ his thoughts are racing all over again, but he’s learned to take a breath and calm down; they’re not on the battlefield anymore. ] Where does it hurt?

[Paul does see the blood, his hand rising at his side to reach out before he stops himself, but the fact Falco shows no other lingering side effects eases the constriction in his chest. The boy's concern for him brings it back.

The memory was a nightmare, but he knew what needed to be done. He doesn't know what to do here, except think of what he'd want in Falco's position.]

It's an old injury on my leg, not from your memory. You can take a look once we're inside. We shouldn't stay out here.

[He looks at the various empty houses on the street, picks a nearby one with a closed door and intact windows, and starts off towards it. He pauses to look over his shoulder, and say quietly:] I'm glad you're all right.

[ falco follows close by as he did, nearly right at paul’s heels and observing the aforementioned injury with a passing glance before it turned to staring. he’d prefer to be giving more of that attention to paul himself, and brings his eyes to him. he’d like that— even if everything’s fine, he’d like to check for himself. ]

Me too. [ mostly, at least. before they enter the building hollowed out for them to use for the time being, the pygmy falcon dives for the boy’s shoulder and easily plants herself there. for a bird of prey, she’s awfully small, perhaps not all that larger than paul’s desert mouse— and fits right into the crook of falco’s neck, milky white eyes on the mouse and then the man. ] I’m just sorry we had to meet . . . Like that, sir.

[ chaotic and hazardous, but it’s clear already, what the result of that memory and those actions has caused in falco— he’s looking up to paul with the utmost respect, and any lack of mister or sir or even whatever title they once held, captain or war chief or doctor. anything less just wouldn’t do to convey that. unless, he was asked to drop them. that may be the only exception, but it doesn’t take the glint in his eyes that’s there when regarding someone. ]

Don't - [His voice starts off too sharp, almost angry, and Paul pauses to readjust before he continues, softer again.] Don't apologize for that.

[He's surprised at how much he means it. He's surprised at nearly everything he's done in the past hour or so, such a brief span of time to have him thrown so completely off his balance. 'Sir', for one thing. He's been 'my lord' and 'young master', but sir is - sir is Gurney Halleck, who would know what to do with Falco.

The inside of the house is thick with dust, but no scent of blood or decay. Paul kicks a metal jug that has toppled to the ground and it clangs loudly down the grey wallpapered front hallway. Nothing stirs, and he judges it safe to move further inside. His desert mouse hangs behind, hopping at Falco's feet despite the presence of his falcon. Omens operate on different rules than flesh and blood creatures.]

It's what we're supposed to do, isn't it? Help each other. [Paul looks over his shoulder at the younger boy.] You're going to help me. So you have nothing to apologize for, and nothing you owe me.

[ falco remains with his back stiff and dares not to talk back. there was hardly much to argue in the first place, he thought, if paul was being as sincere as his tone. obedient thing he was, he takes in the young man’s words and nods, meandering over an emptied, tattered couch and some dusty cushions— that he does the honors of flipping over. at least they won’t sit in dust, that way. ]

Okay, Mister Paul.

[ his gaze goes down, to his side, but the little desert mouse catches his attention faster than the sash across his shoulder and under his cloak, causing his lips to turn up. hanging from his side was a small messenger’s bag, and on his hips— a knife on one side, and a pistol holster in the other. the bag’s contents were more valuable, in this case: the flap is opened to reveal a few vials and clean cotton fabrics. ]

I brought my things, too. Just in case.

[ that’s a little first aid kit, he has. ]

[Paul catches the not-quite-smile out of the corner of his eye as he examines the fireplace, shining his omni's light up the shaft after forcing open the vent in a shower of powdery snow. His mouse perks her ears and clambers up the couch Falco just attended to, bouncing onto the overturned cushion and then showily grooming herself with tiny paws.]

You came prepared. [He must have been trained, like the other ones were - Paul turns away from the thought as he works on building the basics of a fire with a few shattered sticks of broken furniture.] ...how far did you go to get here?

[As the adrenaline wears off, more rational thoughts are returning. For example, what is a child, even a capable one, doing out on the streets by himself after what just happened to him? Was he alone? If he was, why was he? Is that knife the only weapon he has?]

[ a simple observation, but one that has falco’s chest warm and fluttery with satisfaction that his efforts have been acknowledged. it doesn’t broaden his smile, per se, falco isn’t much sunshine, but you can tell in the way he takes a seat, prepares the bag open and off his shoulders and his waiting glance that he’s glad to do more. he’s helpful this way.

he’s careful not to disturb the mouse omen either, doing cute mouse things— perle herself has fluffed up her plumage and hopped onto the arm of the tattered couch to give her boy room to move freely. ]

Not far, [ he considers where he lives, ] I’m staying in Crenshaw.

[ he’s ready to get started, but since they’re on the topic— ]

Where’re you staying?

Nowhere specific yet.

[Once the fire is lit Paul comes to sit on the couch nearby, his mouse hopping up onto the opposite armrest. Paul looks between the two omens, thoughtful, and then bends over to roll up his left pant leg and unwind the hasty bandage over his calf.

It's not awful. The wounds were clean and healing well, so the popped stitches released mostly clean blood. The teeth of the bear trap had been slowed and blunted by his shield, so there's not as much bruising and crush damage as there should have been. It's still ugly, but it's not going to be difficult to restitch the two of the five that had opened. He sits up and nods to Falco - he can go ahead.]

I haven't decided where I want to. I'm new here. Are you?

[ it hadn’t been the worst of lacerations— but falco knew not to make faces, either way. his hands hover once the wound has been exposed, taking an amble look at what was missing and what was needed after carefully aiding in undoing the initial bandages keeping what was left of the stitches safe (and whatever was dribbling out could at least be soaked). first things was first: cleaning, so falco gets right to separating the materials he needs to begin. and begin he does, not overly gentle, but firm enough to remove any excess dirt or dried blood, and mindful of any sensitive bits. a healthy would was a lively one, and he’s glad that this was at least headed in the right direction. ]

It’s been a little over a month for me. [ he supposes he could be new— not brand new, but fresh compared to their long standing veterans who crossed over from deerington. ] I haven’t been staying in one place for too long, either— I check on a few people.

[ there was erwin, but then there was also rose, who he can’t help but to visit and stay with from time to time! the other children, too. paul might as well be one of them, now. ]

Did you get this . . . Here?

[ he asks treading carefully, because the wound was in fact fresh. he’d almost been expecting a battle scar, of sorts. ]

I did. I wasn't looking where I was going, and I stepped in a trap.

[That the trap was set deliberately for people isn't a necessary part of the explanation. There's mild discomfort as Falco works on his injuries, but he seems to have a practiced hand. Paul leans over slightly to watch, humming quiet approval at what he sees.

It helps masks his uneasiness at his growing sense that he should be doing something else beyond this. He thinks back, rifling through his own memories for a comparable moment.]

...do you want to talk about what happened back there? You don't have to, but I'm a good listener.

🦅 🦅 🦅

ᴡᴀʀ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍɪᴅ-ᴇᴀsᴛ ᴀʟʟɪᴇᴅ ғᴏʀᴄᴇs

cw for war imagery, violence & child soldiers

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