Cecilia

Matthew almost sighed at the feeling, but Father was still looking at him, an odd, intense look to his drawn, war-weary face. Arthur had crows feet where Matthew couldn't recall them being when he pulled on the memories of happier times to get him through the day. Don't make me give the order, lad, his father's face said.

Matthew closed his eyes and swallowed, and took a half step forward to keep the weight of his father's hand on his shoulder as Arthur tried to withdraw it. Father froze and gave him another squeeze. If the Canadian Corps was going to be asked to do the impossible yet again, he needed that feeling, the warmth of his Father's unspoken pride. (4.) Matthew had to relish it for a long moment. Canadians have salted and smoked away sustenance for winter since Matthew was born. He needed this affection saved and put away for later, just like cod or cow tongue. It would keep him on his feet long after his physical strength melted away like snow under a spring sun. It always did. Sometimes, he could almost be as strong as Alfred if he was given enough of that assurance.

Matthew opened his eyes after a long moment, and Father withdrew his hand.

"The hill is to be taken, sir?" Matthew asked as they continued along the path as if nothing had happened.

"Yes," Arthur said curtly. "That is the order,"

"Yes, sir," He stared at the sky, oppressive like the greasy bottom of a silver ingot and threatening rain. Another boom sounded and wondered if it was artillery or thunder and tried to tell himself the fear was not on his own behalf. The English have been attempting to take Passchendaele and its ridge. The Scottish have tried as well. Australians and New Zealanders have marched into the mud now too. (5.) Matthew flexed his hands in his pockets and inhaled, steadying himself.

"The Australians?" He asked as they rounded a corner toward Matthew's tents. The fingers on both hands ached in his pockets as he thought of Jack. Winter was turning to spring in Australia, a world away.

Father shook his head.

"Fuck," His limp hands turned to fists in his pockets. "How bad?"

"They're all doing their damndest," Arthur said and looked up sharply to admonish Matthew like Jack needed defending from him. "Your brother included,"

"I meant how badly off is Jack," Matt said snappishly. He's trying to take this burden off his Father's shoulders. Trying to make it his suggestion instead of Father's order does not make it any easier. (6.)

"He looked poorly last I saw him," Arthur said in that understated way. As far as Matthew had ever figured out, 'looking poorly' was Father's way of saying Jack looked damn near death's door.

"So pull him back," Matt said automatically.

"And replace him with what?" Arthur said like he was actually looking for suggestions. They each knew perfectly well what Arthur was doing, backing him into the corner and Matthew following along to make it look like a choice like it would be Matthew's suggestion to march into hell itself. But they both knew Matthew had more love in him than fear when it came to this family. He hated his father just then for using it against him.

Matthew was silent for a long moment and, behind his back, wrung his hands until his trigger finger popped. He could feel his heartbeat in his throat and his sinuses and eyes. (7.) Even years later, Matthew still ached where gas had seared his body raw. It was a small wonder that he didn't rattle when he walked with all the shrapnel he could still feel under his skin. Maybe he'll collect so much of it before this war is over, he'll be bulletproof. Maybe Father would give him another medal. But all the flak, bits of ribbon and shiny medallions in the world could puncture him or be pinned to his chest and fill his head to heel with hot steel. He'd still feel the emptiness of every dead soldier. The little warm place in his heart where every Canadian lived felt empty.

He always imagined each one as a pinprick of starlight against the inky night sky. Each birth like the old Roman gods that lifted the heroes into the constellations, each natural death a star falling. In his life so far, it had been like watching the dawn. Each new pinprick of life slowly brightened the day and his life as his population increased. But the night is dark during wartime, and the sky that lived inside him like it was etched into his ribs was emptier every day.

"I'll go," He said, very quietly. They have forced this waltz before. Arthur made his orders look like requests, Matthew positing his sacrifices as suggestions.

His Father made a noise of acknowledgement, and Matt shoved his hands back into his pockets and wondered. When had he stopped crying? When had the icy title of shock trooper seeped over and frozen out the title of brother and son? He didn't want to be this brutal, effective first dominion of the British Empire. He wanted to be Matthew. He wanted to herd his siblings around for dinner, let Jack yammer his ear off about Zee's birds. He wanted to go home and be his Father's son.

"Summon General Currie," He said. Matthew had hoped that he would have less death behind his eyes and less blood on his hands with a born Canadian at the helm. He was always stupid to hope for anything. But Matt couldn't stop himself. He'd never been able to control himself. "Send me my orders when they come,"

He shoved his hands into his pockets and wondered how worth stealing a car and driving to wherever Pershing had parked his doughboy brother's ass this week would be. He missed Alfred fiercely just then, full of warmth in his face, who always had chocolate at the ready and a hand free to ruffle his hair. Alfred understood the hope Matthew could never give up, New World as they both were. He was walking away, trying to shove the images of his dead away, boots heavy on the wooden planks that keep them out of the mud, when he felt Arthur's hand on his bicep.

"You don't have to," Arthur said, and Matt nearly fell over at the tone, raw and so full of something Matthew could not name. He turned on his heel to face his Father and saw the wreck of his Father's grief whole on his face with a shock like icy water.

"I'll apply pressure in London. George is already skeptical," Father's voice sounded like a man who had been flogged or a Catholic confessing. Matthew blinked. He had known London wasn't in favour. The prime minister mainly but Jesus Christ. (8.) "We'll pull it back,"

"Sir?"

"They think it's madness. Even if you take the ridge, there's no guarantee we'll take the Belgian ports." This whole thing was to stop the German submarines from starving them all to death. (9.) Matt stumbled back and shook his head, disbelieving. Father was destroying the reason he needed to fight. And Father didn't manipulate politics for his sake. Alfred, sure. Even with his defiance, Alfred had money poured into him from the British establishment. His brother's railroads and industry, and empire were always encouraged by their Father. (10.) Alfred is the heir. He is a spare son, and even in that, he isn't alone or unique. Jack is right behind him with Father's eyes and energy.

He was suddenly so tired. So fucking tired. Father was offering him something that would be stealing to take. There would be blood for his weakness if he took it. He had to take the ridge so they could take the port. There was a reason they had to do this. If there wasn't, if Father's offer was genuine, Matthew would never take another step. Arthur requested, and Matthew suggested. But what England wanted, it took as much as Canada gave.

"No," He said numbly. "No. I'll take it. And then the port. And we'll win this,"

"Matthew," His Father said, reaching for him again. "Listen to me,"

"I'm going," Matt said. "Pull Jack back. I'm going,"

"Lad,"

"Pull him back," Matt said and hated himself for hesitating. Pull him back and give him your mercy, he thought. I don't deserve it.

He stared at his Father for a long moment, the pain of his Father on plain display. Arthur's eyes were sunken into his head with exhaustion. He limped. He smelled like rum and the misery of humanity, and his collar was pulled up against the cold. He shared the collapsed shoulders and craggy devastation of the fathers in the churchyards burying their boys in coffins draped in the Union Jack. Matt swallowed. He's seen the man pouring his life out from both ends of cholera, held his hand as he died of consumption, clung to him as they drowned when their ship had gone down once in the Atlantic Ocean, but never in his life has he ever seen his Father look so empty of England. Matthew cannot see the cunning ambition of the man who has created the British empire. Arthur, for this moment, is only his Father.

"Dad," He said, the panic and anger going out from him. His Father is as human as he's ever seen him. Matthew had wanted to be a son and brother only a moment before, and now he is. How often has Matt wanted Dad to pull him off the line and give him a week of sleep? How often has he been a moment from begging the man to not be a general and be their Father? He swallowed. "Dad, we're going to be fine."

His father looked up, a touch desolate. He had wanted reassurance before, but Matthew's hand was on Dad's shoulder, squeezing now.

"We're going to be fine," He said and gave his best smile.

"I wish I could believe that," His Father heaved out. "There's never been a war like this, lad. Never in all my life,"

Matt wanted to shoot him. Anything to shut him up. But he didn't say a word. Instead, he steeled his expression.

"There's never been a family like ours either," Matthew said fiercely. If he didn't have his Father's strength now, he always had the guarantee of Alfred's. "Alfred's here, Dad. The worst is already over. This is just a hill. I'll take it, and we'll be fine,"

"You shouldn't have to, Matthew! I shouldn't ask this of you!" His Father's hand spasmed in a fist at his temple, and for one horrifying moment, Matthew thought he might cry.

"That's all right," Matt said and hated everything in himself for it. The words made him want to vomit up all the blood of every Canadian who's spilt a drop in this fucking mess of a war. But he held himself fast. "We'll go get Jack, okay?"

"I never meant—" Arthur swallowed. He isn't near tears now but something worse. His Father's always been a moody bastard, and Matt's running out of patience. He's never run out of patience before, but lately, as he kills racked up, it's harder to do the work keeping everyone else whole. Father closed his eyes. "I didn't want to do that to you, and of you,"

Matt squeezed his shoulder. "Go get them, Dad. Get Jack and Zee off that hill and hold them, all right? We'll be all right. Hold them tight 'til you believe me, and I'll take the hill. It'll be fine,"

"Matthew," His Father said like a prayer. Like an apology.

"I'll be fine," Matt lied easily. "Just go get them. Make them safe, Dad. This is to make all of us safe, right? So I'll get the hill,"

"Matthew—"

"I've never let you down, have I?" Matthew gave another attempt at smiling. "You've never asked more of me than I could give,"

Yes, he had. Father had demanded more blood than he had in his body, more ore than the interior had, more wheat than the west could give. But Matthew had figured it out then. He'd figure this out now.

"Don't worry, I've got this,"

Notes:

1.) Passchendaele might be most famous that in a war of rainy, horrific battles, it's by far the muddies and most horrific. It rained so much that hundreds of men and horses literally drowned in the shell-holes.

2.) The British tried to take Passchendaele ridge first, but were brutally beaten back after only taking about a third of their objectives. Not bad for a WW1 battle actually. But did I literally kneecap England? Yep!

3.) America joined the war in April 1917 but did not yet have enough troops in France and Belgium to make a difference. The British had to work hard to keep the Americans under the impression they were doing all right.

4.) By this point in the war, the Canadians had somehow gotten the reputation for being the most successful of the spearheading units in the British Army, using precise training and tactics to take German positions that other units have failed to take.

5.) Literally everyone's had a whack at this fucking hill. Time to unleash the murder moose that was once Arthur's sweet baby boy. sob.

6.) The Australians got so SO close to taking the ridge but as they never passed conscription, they didn't have the reinforcements to finish the job when they were exhausted and took brutally heavy casualties. Jack's doing a fantastic job but this is a nasty battle.

7.) Reference to the 2nd Battle of Ypres in 1915 when the Canadians got the shit gassed out of them. I wrote Sure of the Sea originally about that battle.

8.) David Lloyd George was NOT a fan of this idea. England and much of the empire was exhausted by 1917 and Flanders was already covered meters deep in British and Imperial corpses. This battle was folly from the beginning.

9.) The whole point of the Battle of Passchendaele was to take the Belgian coast from German control and give Britain a foothold to eliminate the U-boat bases there. Germany was doing a very good job at bombing supply ships that fed Britain from the far-flung colonies and the dominions. Rations in the British Army were cut several times in 1917 alone.