Amir Lane - LGBT Fantasy meets Heavy Metal

Aleksandr’s voice from the other side of the fire was the only human sound in the Swedish mountains. It was strange to hear the words in his soft melodic voice rather than Ragnar’s death growls. Strange, but pretty. 

Two thousand years ago, Aleksandr would have been a priest or a storyteller in a small mountainside town, and he would have been happier for it. He wasn’t meant for rapid modern life. He sifted through the rabbit bones at his feet with the stick he’d been using to stoke the fire, trying to read some kind of message from the gods in them.

“Freyja spoke to me yesterday,” he said in soft Swedish.

Hale raised an eyebrow, silently urging him to continue.

“I had this dream. There was a… fetal deer eating its own umbilical cord. I think she wants you to call your mother.”

That was… disgusting. 

Even though he was used to Aleksandr saying these sorts of things, Hale made a face and shook his head. Some of his hair fell from the loose bun. He tied it back up to keep it out of his face despite the wind’s best efforts. His finger brushed one of the beads in the thin braid on the right side, more out of habit than anything else.

“I think she wants you to stop smoking so much pot,” Hale said.

The rustle of branches interrupted Aleksandr’s soft laugh. Their eyes met for a brief moment. Aleksandr unsheathed the long dagger strapped to the side of his leg, while Hale’s hand settled on his already-loaded crossbow. Guns might have been more practical, but they would have to account for every bullet. It was more trouble than it was worth. The ash bolts were more effective than bullets anyway.

More movement came from Hale’s left. His head snapped in the direction of the sound. 

Two of them?

“Aleksandr,” he said sharply.

“I know.”

With his free hand, Hale found the silver Mjölnir pendant and engagement ring hanging from the leather cord beneath his jacket and kissed them. He rolled his shoulders to let the pelt fall back onto the snow. His eyes were fixed on the tight line of trees. 

Odin, protect us. 

They had been lucky so far. They had survived these hunting trips on and off for eleven years now. Hopefully, this year would make it twelve.

A woman’s voice cried out in the darkness. 

“Help me! Help me!”

Hale ground his teeth against the instinct to find her. He didn’t know if this tactic was something they learned or if it was ingrained into them. The nearest cabins were all empty right now. They had checked before sundown and found no sign of human life. 

That had been several hours ago. Somebody very well could have wandered up into the Paglaberget mountains near Boden, Sweden and gotten hurt or lost in that time. 

Hale doubted it. 

The same cry came from behind him. This time, it was a man’s voice. 

“Help me! Help me!”

Hale stood and raised his crossbow with both hands. Though it was fairly light, he was mindful of the way the weight tugged at the scars behind his left shoulder. In his periphery, Aleksandr sheathed the dagger and raised his own crossbow instead.

This wasn’t right. 

Draug weren’t like European or North American vampires. They didn’t move in pairs. It was likely why Hale and Aleksandr had survived doing this so long. It was always two against one.

They had a strategy. His job was to slow the bastards down so Aleksandr could finish them off. Two of them coming from different directions complicated things. 

“Hale,” Aleksandr said.

Hale knew that tone. 

“Don’t,” he warned. 

“You’ve been a good brother.”

“Fuck off.”

Aleksandr laughed softly. 

“I love you too, Hale.”

Hale’s lip twitched into a smile despite himself. 

“Come on, you fucks,” he muttered. 

The silence was worse than the noise. Had they seen the weapons and retreated?

No—

From his left—

“Hale!”

Hale spun. 

Eyes glowed yellow in the light of the fire. His finger twitched on the trigger. The bolt went wide.

Dammit!

The draug moved fast, too fast for Hale to follow. There was no point trying to see it. He allowed instinct to take over. He turned in the direction of the hairs prickling on the back of his neck as he released the bolt without letting himself think about it. A howl of pain rang through his eardrums. The draug paused long enough that Hale could see the bolt sticking from her thigh. She stared at him with sharp teeth bared and wide eyes a blue so pale, they were nearly white. She was thin enough that he could make out the bones of her skull and collarbones where her torn and bloody clothes hung loose from her body. It was impossible to tell how old she’d been as human.

Jeans and a t-shirt. 

Had she been killed in the summer?

Hale smothered down the guilt before it could distract him. One week a year. That was the agreement. Anything outside that week wasn’t his responsibility. All he could do was put the poor thing out of her misery and keep her from killing anybody else.

His weak shoulder gave out a little as he pulled the trigger again. The bolt stuck between the draug’s ribs instead of her heart. 

“How are you doing, Aleksandr?” he shouted.

The lack of verbal response wasn’t encouraging. 

“Aleksandr!”

“I’m fine!”

Hale slipped his shoulder to the side, narrowly avoiding the woman’s claws aimed for his face. She was too close for the crossbow. He let it fall to the ground and moved his right leg back. 

A sharp cry rang out behind him. 

“Aleksandr?”

Hale made the mistake of looking back. He didn’t see Aleksandr or the other draug. 

“Aleksandr!”

Gods, where was he? Where—

The woman slammed into him. The snow broke his fall, and the pain was muffled by the spike of adrenaline in his veins. He braced his left hand against her rotting throat to keep her teeth from his face. This close, he could see the blue tinge to her skin. Cold pain pulled at the scars behind his shoulder. The weak muscles quivered with the effort of holding her back against gravity. Her ugly snarl looked even more inhuman in the firelight. 

Hale’s pendants were hot where they’d fallen back against his skin. 

Protect him, you bastards, not me. He’s not a fighter!

Hale could handle himself, but Aleksandr— 

Aleksandr could hold his own. He wasn’t as soft as he looked. Hale couldn’t think of him while the woman’s short claws raked at his arms. She was clearly young enough they hadn’t had a chance to grow long yet. The sleeves of his jacket kept them from breaking his skin. 

Hale shifted to push the woman back a few inches with his good arm. He wedged his knee up between them. His fingers scrambled over his thigh until they found the hilt of his dagger. 

Blood splattered on his face as he drove the blade into the underside of her jaw. She howled and screamed around the metal. He kept his grip on the hilt as she jerked back, dislocating her jaw. She fell back, and Hale was on her in a less than a breath. He dropped his weight onto the dagger. It took two tries to get it between the ribs and into her heart. 

It was concern for Aleksandr that made him stand as the draug woman thrashed on the snow, not the sick feeling that came with watching her die. 

This never did get easier. 

“Aleksandr?”

“I’m— I’m okay. I got it.”

Aleksandr wavered a little as he stood. As Hale approached, he made out the figure of the male draug in the firelight. Crossbow bolts stuck from his body, including two protruding from his heart beside the dagger. 

“Are you hurt?” Hale asked. 

He unzipped his jacket and tossed it back onto the log Aleksandr had been sitting on. Sweat made the long-sleeved shirt underneath stick to his body. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve. Aleksandr did the same. 

“I don’t think so,” Aleksandr said, looking himself over.

Hale guided Aleksandr closer to the fire so he could get a better look. His stomach clenched. 

In Eir’s name—

“You’re bleeding,” Hale said.

Aleksandr looked down at himself, frowning.

“I am? Oh...”

Hale pulled one of his gloves off and grabbed the bottom of Aleksandr’s shirt. Aleksandr’s long fingers caught his wrist.

“No! I don’t want you to see,” Aleksandr said quietly.

For the love of all the Gods. 

Hale had had seen Aleksandr at his worst. He had seen every one of his ink-covered scars. He was the one who’d found Aleksandr when he—

It wasn’t worth fighting over. 

“I won’t look,” Hale promised. 

If the injury was as mild as the amount of blood suggested, he wouldn’t have to. 

Hale had two inches and a good fifty pounds on Aleksandr. Even with the sharp ache in his shoulder, it wouldn’t be difficult to manhandle him if he had to. 

Aleksandr winced as Hale prodded at his stomach with his bare hand. His long fingers clutched at Hale’s arms. 

“Breathe through it,” Hale said. 

He took deep, exaggerated breaths that Aleksandr gasped to match. There were three breaks in skin on the left side, running from beneath his ribs to his navel. They didn’t feel deep enough to need more than a few stitches, but they would leave another scar. Aleksandr already had so many, both from fights with draug and from his own hands. 

Hale flattened his palm against the gashes and wrapped his free arm around Aleksandr’s waist to hold him in place. Another scar would bother Hale far less than it would Aleksandr. 

Aleksandr had survived some of the worst things a person could live through. Hale would never mistake the way Aleksandr clung to him as weakness. 

Hale’s hand grew warm. He closed his eyes, focusing on the high singing of the wind through the trees. Aleksandr let out a pained sound and jerked. Hale tightened his grip. 

“It’s all right, Aleksandr. Relax.”

The heat burned. Hale clenched his teeth together to keep his expression neutral. A light sting began at the base of his ribs and drew downward in a mirror of the wounds on Aleksandr’s body. He couldn’t let it show how much this hurt him. It was bearable. The worst would come in a few days when Eir took her payment for healing Aleksandr from him. 

Aleksandr squirmed in discomfort as the deeper muscles knotted themselves together. Hale kept his hand in place until the gashes wouldn’t heal anymore. He pulled his shaking hand back and wiped his palm on his pants. 

“We should finish with these,” Hale said, nodding toward the corpses bloodying the snow. 

Cutting the heads off and carving out the hearts was just a precaution. The bodies would return to the earth on their own when the sun rose. Hale grabbed his hatchet from where it rested against the log he’d been sitting on and turned to the female draug.

“Hale. Hale!”

Hale spun, raising the hatchet to hurl it at what he expected to be a third draug, and froze. 

The woman and two men flanking her were not draug. Their bare feet didn’t leave any prints in the snow as they approached. They wore fur pelts, long wool robes, and jewelry that looked like it was made of bone. Antlers protruded from their heads. Ornate headdresses obscured the top halves of their faces. 

“What are they?” Hale said. 

“Fjallvættir,” Aleksandr whispered. 

Mountain spirits? 

“I thought they were just stories,” Hale said.

He knew how stupid the words were as soon as they left his mouth. Draug were just stories, too. What he could do was just a story, too.

They stopped walking far enough to be nonthreatening, but close enough to make out their features in the flickering firelight. Their skin was as white as the snow. Black lines ran from their cheekbones to their jaws.

Hale’s breath stuck in his throat. The hatchet slipped from his hand. The pain that tore through his heart was almost enough to bring him to his knees. 

It can’t be him. 

It was impossible. He was dead, and what few pieces of him they’d managed to find had been cremated.

The man to Hale’s left with the smallest antlers smiled, his sharp teeth a bright contrast with his black lips.

In that moment, he’s 22 again, sitting outside on a night just like this. Aleksandr is across from him, and Sören Ecklund is beside him with his arm around Hale’s shoulder. They’re laughing and drinking, celebrating Hale and Sören's engagement, Hale’s birthday in a week, and the launch of Emperor Immortal’s debut album. The release was the month before, but Aleksandr and Hale had been too busy with exams to celebrate. They had technically already celebrated the engagement in July, but Hale doesn’t care. He’ll celebrate it again. He doesn’t usually drink much, and he’s already a little bit buzzed. 

“To the two greatest guitarists in Sweden! May Braggi bless you both, Sören shouts. 

Hale laughs. Sören kisses the side of his head, his cheekbone, his jaw, before Hale finally turns his head to connect their mouths. Aleksandr gags. 

“I would have helped mom and dad move if I knew you’d be making out this entire time!”

Hale laughs again, presses his forehead to Sören's shoulder to hide his embarrassment. His hair, barely brushing his chin, isn’t long enough to cover his face. 

“You’d better get used to it. I’m going to be making out with this man for the rest of my life,” Sören says.

Sören lifts Hale’s hand to kiss the engagement ring on his fourth finger, a plain stainless steel band with a small, red cubic zircona stone set in the middle. Hale wonders why he keeps insisting they wait until he finishes his Master’s degree to get married. They should do it as soon as they get back to town.

Aleksandr interrupts the moment with loud singing, still perfectly in tune despite being drunk, until a woman’s cry cuts through. 

“Help me! Help me!”

Sören rises to investigate. Hale blinks, and there’s screaming. Blood on the snow. A woman crouched over Sören, tearing through his abdomen. He pushes at her but there’s so much blood. He gasps, chokes on screams. A bloody hand reaches toward them. Fingers dig into the snow. 

Colourless eyes turn to Hale, blood all over her face. Sharp teeth glow in the fire. 

Hale throws himself at Aleksandr. They hit the ground hard. Sharp claws tear at his shoulder. All he can do is scream. 

“Sören... Sören!”

Aleksandr’s cry broke through the waking nightmare. Hale barely came back to himself in time to dart across the snow to catch him across the waist. He pulled Aleksandr back to put himself between him and the fjallvættir. 

“Stay back! It’s not him. He’s dead, Aleksandr, it isn’t him.”

It couldn’t be him. He’d been dead twelve years. 

Hale had been at the funeral. He might have been drunk, but he’d been there. He’d been there when they’d scattered the small amount of Sören's ashes in these very mountains. He’d watched the light go out of Sören's eyes as he bled out on the snow not ten feet from where they stood now. 

The fjallvættr looked toward that spot and tilted his head in a way that made Hale’s throat tighten. 

Aleksandr pushed against Hale’s arm. The muscles of Hale’s left shoulder tugged sharply as he pushed back with as much force as he could. 

“Stay behind me,” Hale ordered.

Hale’s dagger was still stuck in the draug’s chest. He pulled the other one from inside his boot. 

The woman approached the male draug’s body and crouched next to it as if Hale and Aleksandr weren’t there. She seemed to be studying it. Hale watched her in his periphery, keeping his eyes on the man that was not Sören. Her lips moved, but Hale couldn’t hear anything. The other man nodded. 

Sören — It’s not Sören. — walkedto the spot where he’d died and stood there for a moment, looking down at the snow as if he could still see his own blood, before he turned toward Hale and Aleksandr. 

Hale stiffened. 

“Stay back,” he warned. 

Behind him, Aleksandr chocked on a sob. 

The man ignored him and kept walking. Even the damned sway of his hips and shoulders was familiar. He still had that scar on his cheek from a bike accident as a kid. When he smiled, his black lips still pulled up more at one side than the other. 

Hale swallowed down his racing heart. The dagger trembled in his hand. 

The other man walked around them to the body of the female draug. Hale barely noticed. All he could focus on was keeping Aleksandr back as Sören brushed some loose hair from Hale’s forehead. He traced cold, calloused fingers along Hale’s cheekbone and jaw. They settled on his lips for a moment before he hooked his middle finger around the black leather cord to lift the pendant and ring. 

Sören's smile went soft, and he tilted his head just slightly. 

You still wear these, his expression seemed to say. 

Hale licked his lips. The spot Sören's fingers touched was cold. It made him shiver.

It was him. By all the fucking gods, it was really him. Somehow, it was him. 

“I— met someone,” Hale whispered. 

He didn’t know why he said it. He didn’t owe this figment of Sören an explanation. What did he have to feel guilty over?

There was nothing but joy in Sören's broad grin despite his sharp teeth. If Hale could see his eyes, he was sure they would be just as bright. He ran his hand through Hale’s hair the way he used to and traced a cold finger over Hale’s forehead. The lines he drew out made the familiar outline of the Helm of Awe. Painting it onto their foreheads like the Old Norse warriors for their live performances had been Sören's idea in the first place. Their outfits, stage setup, and the way they did their hair had changed over the years as the band grew and evolved, but the Helms remained. 

Sören's hand curled around the back of Hale’s neck to pull him down so he could press a cold kiss to the center of Hale’s forehead. 

Icy pain shot through Hale’s skull like a screwdriver was being shoved through it. The dagger slipped between his fingers as he pressed both hands to his face. White spots blinded him. A sharp scream tore itself from the back of his throat. 

“Hale!”

Through hazy vision, Hale watched Sören step toward Aleksandr. Aleksandr froze, looking wide-eyed between the two of them. 

“Stay away from him!” Hale ground out. 

It might have been more effective if he could actually see straight. Sweat broke out along his spine. His breath fogged in front of his face. 

Sören cupped Aleksandr’s face with one hand. 

“Don’t touch him. I swear, if you hurt him, I will kill you!”

He didn’t care if this thing was a mountain spirit or Sören or fucking Odin himself. If he hurt Aleksandr, Hale would gut him. 

If he could get a hold of his damned axe or dagger or crossbow…

Sören pulled Aleksandr tight against his chest. Aleksandr let out another choked sound and buried his face in Sören's shoulder. 

Hale wrapped his hand around the hilt of his dagger and pushed himself upright, bracing his thighs to keep them from giving out. Exhaustion was quickly beginning to overtake him. 

I’m getting too old for this.

He wasn’t in his 20s anymore. He hadn’t been very kind to his body in the last decade. Truth be told, he hadn’t intended to live so long. In a few years, he would be 40. It was a little surreal.

Keeping one eye on Sören and Aleksandr, he angled the dagger to catch his reflection in the firelight. It wouldn’t have surprised him to find an imprint of the Helm of Awe, but there was nothing. 

Each of the other mountain spirits held a draug over their shoulders. They watched Sören as they carried the corpses to the edges of the trees. The woman’s mouth moved silently.

“No, no, don’t go!” Aleksandr shouted.

Hale turned to see Sören attempting to pull himself from Aleksandr’s arms. Though only the bottom of his face was visible, the downward turn of his mouth showed as much pain as the tears rolling from Aleksandr’s eyes.

“Please, just one more minute. I’m not ready yet, I’m not— ”

Sören managed to pry Aleksandr’s hands from his shoulders, only for Aleksandr to catch his wrists. His head tipped toward Hale. His lips pressed into a tight line, then twitched a little. 

Hale swallowed. It took everything he had not to look at Sören, dropping the dagger as he walked. He wrapped his arms around Aleksandr’s waist. Even through the layers of clothes, he could feel Aleksandr’s heart racing and his lungs stuttering around his sobs.

“It’s all right,” Hale murmured, knowing damn well it wasn’t.

“No it’s not! Let me go, Hale! I swear to Odin—! Sören! Sören!”

Aleksandr’s broken scream reverberated through his back and pierced Hale’s eardrums. There seemed to be no other sound in the mountains, as if nature had silenced itself to give Aleksandr space to grieve.

No, that was too poetic. It was most likely the draug and the screaming scared off any lingering wildlife. The fjallvættir themselves might have done it too.

It was advice Brys hadn’t forgotten so far. Every second he was out here, he was too aware of what could happen if he stayed upright too long. 

“Hold steady,” Gwilym said, shifting slightly as he looked through the periscope at the enemy line. 

Through the lense of the rifle, Brys could only just make out a shadow that was either a cloud, a head, or a dog. There were plenty of scavengers taking advantage of the corpses lining the battlefield. 

Brys hadn’t expected it all to be so bad. He’d heard the stories from soldiers returning from the front before he’d been drafted, but not even the most nauseatingly vivid descriptions could do it justice.

This wouldn’t have been the first time he’d seen bodies. He’d been there when Dad died, and he’d been there when Eirwen lost Ivor. At the time, he hadn’t thought anything in the world could be worse than holding his newborn nephew’s tiny, unmoving corpse as the doctors tried frantically to save his sister from bleeding to death.

While all of that had helped steel his stomach a little, nothing could have prepared him for the reality of it. The sighs were bad enough. He’d seen more organs that first week than his entire life. And the smells. Good God, the smells. Nothing could have prepared him for the smells.

“Hold steady,” Gwilym repeated.

Though Brys’ muscles relaxed as he slowed his breath, his position didn’t waver. His rifle didn’t slip as he focused on the shadow. Whatever it was, it wasn’t moving like an animal. He still couldn’t be sure if it was a person, but if Brys was sure, that was enough for him.

“Hold.”

If Gwilym was wrong and Brys fired, he would be giving away their position. Out in the middle of No-Man’s Land, with barely any cover, they were sitting ducks. A German sniper could take them out with one well-placed bullet each. 

I don’t want to die.

This wasn’t Brys’ fight. If Her Royal Holier-Than-Though wanted to get involved, that shouldn’t have been his problem. His brother-in-law, the predictable English bastard, had enlisted immediately and then gotten himself killed. He’d left Eirwen and her three living kids to fend for themselves. Her work as a seamstress didn’t even cover the rent, let alone food or anything else. Brys supplied the rest. The Front wasn’t the place for him. He had a family to support. 

And then the Empire decided Wales hadn’t bled enough for her. They didn’t care that he was the sole provider for a woman they’d widowed. He was over 18, healthy, not a widower himself, and not a minister when the conscription came. Shooting himself in the foot had crossed his mind, but he didn’t think it’d much help on the whole taking care of his family front. At least the bastards gave him a decent enough pay to keep a roof over their heads.

“Fire.”

The word seemed to bypass Brys’ brain. 

Don’t!

His body ignored his brain. 

It was a reflex now, for his trigger finger to twitch when Gwilym said it. There wasn’t time to hesitate. If he did, the target could move and he would give away their position with nothing to show for it. It wasn’t the only involutary reaction he had to Gwilym some days, but it was the one he hated the most. Watching the soldier’s head explode like a melon and the shadows of what was left of his body drop was almost enough to make Brys resent him. 

It wasn’t Gwilym’s fault, though. It wasn’t Gwilym’s fault the war had started or he’d been drafted. It wasn’t Gwilym’s fault Brys was the best marksman in training. Gwilym might have seen his potential and molded him into a sniper, but he wasn’t the one who’d decided he was just a number, good for nothing but killing.

He couldn’t resent Gwilym. Out here, Gwilym was all he had. If Brys started to resent him, he’d go mad.

The first time had been the worst. Brys had been spotting. Watching through the periscope, he’d seen every detail in vivid slow motion. Blood, bone, and brain matter spraying into the air. The brief spasm, then the stillness. It was like there had been a moment before the poor bastard’s body realized it was dead. And then the way it crumped to the dirt like a puppet who’s strings had been cut.

He’d realized in that moment that was exactly what they were. Puppets. Nothing more, nothing less. He’d known it the moment the draft had come in, of course, but it hadn’t truly sunk in until that moment just how disposable they all were.

“It gets easier,” Gwilym had promised as Brys puked his guts out onto the cold, blood-drenched ground.

It hadn’t gotten easier. Not right away. Somehow, the first time he’d actually done the shooting was even worse than that. It was everything that made him sick the first time with the added guilt of knowing he hadn’t just helped it happen, but he’d done it himself. He could have widowed a mother the way Eirwen had been widowed. All he could think of for days was that somewhere, a mother was getting a letter that he boy’s brains had been blown out by some Allied bastard.

Now, it just made him feel cold. Hollow. Like he wasn’t even human anymore. Humans cared when they killed somebody. Somewhere in the last two years, he’d lost that. He didn’t care anymore. They’d made him into this and he would never forgive him for it.

“We should move positions while it’s still dark out. I can keep spotting for a bit. You need some rest,” Gwilym said.

Brys didn’t move for a long few seconds. The space between his heartbeats was so long, he wasn’t sure it would start again.

What if Brys was already dead? What if that was why he couldn’t move? There were so many bodies. His very well could have been one of them, and he might not have even noticed until now. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to be dead. But God, he didn’t want to be alive either, not in this place where everything tasted like blood and ash. What if that was his blood he was tasting, his own rotten entrails?

He couldn’t be dead. Not even Hell could possibly be as bad as this place.

A large, cold hand settled on the back of Brys’ neck. 

“Come back to me, love. Don’t start going to that dark place,” Gwilym murmured.

Brys’ shoulders twitched. It was enough to unfreeze the rest of his body. He jerked hard, gasping a little. He nearly dropped the rifle like it was made of snakes. It was probably enough motion to get the attention of anyone on the other side who might have been watching them. He held his breath, waiting for the bullet to shatter his skull into a hundred pieces. It never came, but his shoulders wouldn’t relax.

Gwilym brushed the back of his knucles over Brys’ cheekbone. His expression was unreadable in the dark.

“You’re all right,” he said softly.

To Brys’ ears, the tone sounded almost like pity. He pretended his hands didn’t shake as he disassembled the rifle. He pretended his stomach didn’t try to weigh him down so he couldn’t stand and be spotted by someone on the other side who’d only see him as a mark. 

If anybody did spot them, they didn’t have a clear enough line to shoot. The clouds moved overhead, blocking out what little light the moon gave. Gwilym found a new cover, and they repositioned themselves.

“I’ll take first watch. You get some sleep,” Gwilym said.

He touched Brys’ cheek in that soft way again. If it was anyone else, Brys would have jerked away.

If it were anyone else, Brys wouldn’t have pulled that trigger so many times.

Brys slept. At least, he thought he did. He couldn’t be sure. Sometimes, it was hard to tell the difference between the Hell he dreamt in and the one he lived in. 

Behind his eyelids, he was still holding the rifle. Gwilym was still spotting. Gwilym told him to fire, and he did.

He had to be dreaming, because he stood and crossed No-Man’s Land to check the body. He never did that when he was awake. It was a sure way to get sent home in as many pieces as they could collect, if anybody even bothered. Most people weren’t even worth the risk of collecting. 

Nobody shot at him. Nobody was in the trenches. 

He almost didn’t see the body. There wasn’t even a whole body left, only bits and pieces of Ivor splattered across the dirt.

He jerked awake, biting his knucles to keep from screaming and tasting his own blood. There was a split second where he swore he saw glowing eyes watching him in the darkness.

###

“You ever been in love?” Brys asked.

Gwilym looked away from the scope. His scarf was wrapped around his face. He burned like an agoraphobic Irishman in the sun. It was a wonder he’d been allowed to enlist, but Brys figured it didn’t count as a proper medical condition. As long as was fit enough to kill, they didn’t care. There were never enough bodies out here.

“What?”

“I said, you ever been in love?”

“Strange question, isn’t it?”

Brys shrugged his shoulder without looking away from the German line. It was a strange question. He wasn’t sure why he’d asked it, whether it was out of boredom or curiosity. They spent so much time out there, just the two of them, their conversations did sometimes get a little odd. It seemed in the past two years, they’d talked about everything but this.

“Not stranger than anything you’ve asked me,” Brys said. 

Gwilym hummed softly. From the corner of his eye, Brys watched him suck on the end of a cigarette and exhale through his nose before holding out to Brys. Still keeping his attention on the view through the scope, Brys held it between his lips. He spent longer than entirely necessary inhaling the nicotine into his lungs. It helped warm his skin and curb his appetite. 

“So is that a yes or no?” Brys asked, handing the cigarette back.

He savoured the way their fingers brushed together. God almighty, they spent way too long out here together. This was the only human contact he’d had in days, or maybe weeks. Time out here tended to blend together.

“I don’t know. Maybe once or twice. It’s been so long, I can’t remember.”

Brys snorted.

“You aren’t that much older than me. You’re, what, thirty? Thirty-something?”

“Something. When you get around my age, you stop counting.”

Brys’ snort turned to a laugh. He looked away from the scope only long enough to press his mouth to his arm so he could stiffle the sound. Even if he didn’t think it would carry to the German trenches, anything louder than a whisper was risky. There was no movement on the other side. It was getting late. It was more than likely there would be no more shots fired until morning.

“I still got a few years to go, then. Assuming I make it out of this war in one piece,” Brys said.

Gwilym’s fingers hovered over Brys’ hand a moment before he lowered it. Brys clenched his jaw to hide his disappointment.

“What about you? You ever been in love?”

Brys almost closed his eyes. There was some movement in the trenches, but it wasn’t enough to do anything about. There was no clear line of sight. Part of him was relieved. It meant he wouldn’t have to be complicit in any more deaths. Part of him felt worse. Every one of those soldiers was aiming at someone on his side. They wouldn’t care about taking him out. They’d made Eirwen and countless other women a widow. Why should he care about taking them out?

“There was one bloke. Sloan Lockwood. Handsomest man I ever seen.”

Second handsomest.

“Anything happen between you two?” Gwilym asked.

“We, ah… got caught skipping Sunday school together.”

His lip twitched at the memory. Sister Mary had gone so red, he thought her head was about to explode. It was nothing short of divine intervention she hadn’t told Dad. It would have broken his heart to see his boy going around with a Lockwood. He wouldn’t have cared that Brys was chasing other lads, but a Lockwood! 

He would have been right. 

Sloan Lockwood had been drafted too, but while Brys hadn’t had any excuse to get out of it, Sloan’s father had paid some doctor to forge documentation about some bullshit injury. Sloan had told Brys himself. He’d even seemed proud of himself for it, like he was so clever for finding a way to stay home. He’d gotten to take over his father’s law practice, while Brys had no choice but to die out here in the dirt a million miles from anybody who gave a shit about him.

Gwilym cut his laugh short. He jerked upright and swore loudly.

Brys stiffened, his body reacting before his brain had time to process what he was seeing. Shots fired overhead. Soldiers popped out of the ground one by one, firing and ducking down before he could shout directions to Gwilym.

“Take a breath and talk to me!” Gwilym shouted over the gunfire.

Brys did as he was told. He couldn’t think. If he wasted time thinking, they were dead. They were all dead. Every soldier on their side, on the other side. 

His lips didn’t feel like his own. The voice coming from his mouth, shouting instructions at Gwilym on where to aim, didn’t feel like his own.

The bodies dropping weren’t people. They couldn’t be people. They were… It didn’t matter what they were.

Canon fodder. They were canon fodder.

Bullets whistled past his ears, leaving them ringing. Shells exploded around him. Dirt sprayed over him, blinding him. 

“I can’t see anything!” he shouted. 

“Keep your head down!”

Bullet between the eyes.

Brys pressed his forehead to the dirt. His hands gripped at the periscope so hard, he thought his knucles were going to pop out. He couldn’t quite tell if he screamed or not. The ground shook beneath him like Hell itself was preparing to open up and swallow him whole. 

Gwilym grabbed his arm. His voice was too muffled for Brys to make out. His face was streaked with dirt, making the whites of his eyes stand out. His eyes were the palest blue Brys had ever seen.

He was shouting. Even if Brys couldn’t here the words, he could tell from the way his mouth moved. He tugged at Brys’ arm, pulling him up to his feet.

“We— go!”

What?

“— on!”

They were running. They were running. The ground was uneven beneath Brys’ feet. He stumbled more than once. If not for Gwilym’s hand pulling him, he would have fallen.

This is the wrong way.

Brys wasn’t sure how he could tell. Everything looked the bloody same. There was something, maybe a colour or the shape of the trenches, that spoke to a deeper instinct.

There was a gun aimed at them. The man’s leg was clearly shattered. A piece of bone stuck out from his uniform. It was a mystery how he was standing on it. Blood streaked his face. His rifle hung at an odd angle, suggesting his shoulder was broken. His shouts were incoherent sound. 

German, Brys’ mind supplied.

He’d picked up a few words and phrases, but not enough to understand what the soldier was saying. The gun aimed at his skull didn’t need any translation.

His hand went to the knife that was supposed to be at his hip, but his fingers only found air. His heart lurched into his throat. He’d heard that in the moment before death, people’s lives flashed before their eyes. Thankfully, Brys’ didn’t.

What flashed before his eyes was so much—

Well, he wouldn’t say worse. It was stranger. 

What in God’s name was he seeing?

One second, the soldier was aiming the gun at him and screaming. The next, he was gone.

Brys’s eyes darted left and right. He didn’t find the soldier until he looked down. 

Gwilym was on top of him. How had he moved so fast? He’d been behind Brys a moment ago, hadn’t he? He’d been behind Brys a moment ago, and now he was on top of the German soldier. His face was buried against the man’s nexk. His hands had torn the dirty uniform open, and his nails scraped bloody gashes into his skin. 

When he looked up, his face was covered in blood. A stream of it pumped from the soldier’s neck. His pale blue eyes glowed like a cat’s. The red ring around his irises had bleed into the whites. The thin veins around his eyes were black through his pale skin, and his teeth—

His eyeteeth were extended into sharp points. He bared them at Brys, snarling. 

“H-Holy mother of God.”

Brys didn’t consider himself to be a religious man. Mom was Jewish, but Dad had always insisted they be raised Catholic. The cross he wore around his neck was more a habit than anything, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to church, but in that moment, the only thing he could do was make the sign of the cross as he stumbled back.

He was seeing things. He’d hit his head, or he’d died, or— or—

Gwilym’s teeth retracted back to a normal size. He wiped his face on his sleeve, smearing blood over his skin. He reached out for Brys.

Brys jerked back. He couldn’t breathe. There was too much smoke and blood in the air. He stumbled over something, likely his own damned feet, and hit the ground. Flashes of white danced across his eyes.

Wake up, wake up, wake up.

He couldn’t wake up because he wasn’t asleep. This wasn’t a nightmare. It was a nightmare, but it was part of the same waking nightmare he’d been living in for the last two years. 

“Gwilym,” he gasped.

He wasn’t sure if he actually said it outloud or not. His lips were numb and all he could hear over the ringing in his ears was his own racing heart.

“I’m not going to hurt you. Please, we have to get out of here,” Gwilym shouted.

Gwilym didn’t wait for Brys to say anything. He hauled Brys up to his feet like he weighed nothing. It was only his grip bruising Brys’ bicep, half-pulling and half-dragging, that kept him moving. 

Brys swallowed down something sharp and acidic, nearly choking on it. Dust and dirt stung his eyes and throat and nostrils. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

They didn’t stop moving until they reached the Allied trench. Soliders moved around them, too busy dealing with the injured to pay them any attention.

“Are you hurt?”

Gwilym’s voice was still muffled.

Was he hurt? He couldn’t tell. Everything felt numb except the pressure of Gwilym’s hand.

The medical tent was full of wailing soldiers. The image of a bone sticking from what was left of a man’s leg burned itself into Brys’ mind. His screams mingled in with the rest of them. 

“Sit down. There you go. Look at me. Can you tell me your name?”

Large hands cupped his cheeks, angling his head so he was looking down at Gwilym. Even covered in blood and grime, he was beautiful. His full mouth was pulled down and his brows were drawn together in a concerned scowl.

Brys licked dirt from his lips and immediately regretted it. He grimaced and swallowed a few times. 

“Brys. Brys Tuck.”

“Good man. And do you know who I am?”

“Gwilym Darcy.”

His partner. The man he’d fallen in love with. And a monster.