not for main, not for ao3

At age 18 he is conscripted to the first world war by his parents in an attempt to isolate or curb some of his more aggressive and violent behaviours. He struggles through training, fighting with superiors and fellow recruits at every turn. When he is eventually sent out he is a wild and unpredictable force, swapped around squads in hopes to find a commander that can keep him in check.

Eventually he is reassigned as part of a specific task force of 8, sent in to clear out threats not important enough to need full battalion. It is in this team he makes friends with the soldier who will eventually become his sire, another young man with an insatiable bloodlust who had bitten more than three of his unit before being removed. 

The two of them become the only constants of what becomes a revolving team of soldiers and other fighters over the next couple of years, most of the others falling in battle or being pulled away by higher-ups never to return. They build an odd comradery, sticking to themselves. William knows there’s something up with the other but knows better than to press. They all have their histories.

And then he gets shot.

It’s during a mission, five of them sent out to neutralise a suspected surveillance party belonging to the enemy. It goes wrong fast and the last thing he sees is the barrel of the enemy soldier’s gun pointed at his head.

He wakes up almost a month later in a town he doesn’t recognise. It takes time for a brain to regrow. He has no clue what he is or how he got there but there’s a deep hunger under his skin and the townspeople are so very loud. They don’t survive a week before he turns on them, feeding enough to darken his eyes to red and pull the pigment from a patch of his hair.

He lives there for a few years, dropping back to level one, living off of the livestock and wildlife. Sometimes someone human wanders into town and he feeds.

Eventually he leaves, using his training to keep him alive on the road. He meets vampires and humans alike, finding companionship in both. Some he kills, some he lets live. He keeps on the move, rarely settling in towns and cities for more than a week.

When the next war rolls around, he enlists and fights for almost 4 years. He learns to mellow out some, to take and follow orders, and to work with other soldiers. He gets labelled the baby of the unit and he does his best to let people keep that illusion. Feeding on dead soldiers isn’t as satisfying as fresh blood but it beats animal any day.

It’s during that war that he discovers a love for poetry. He finds the need for violence fade when he writes. A sort of peace. As soon as the war is over he begins traveling again, this time with intent.

The world has changed much during his time as a vampire, and he finds an odd joy in tracking down as many new ways to learn as he can. Sometimes he studies alongside others, other times privately. He visits theatres and bars and churches alike. He spends over half a century like this, traveling and learning. He writes constantly, occasionally returning to his birthplace to leave another journal tucked away in a secret cache.

Eventually the song of violence sings to him again and he finds himself taking on odd jobs. Hits and fetch quests alongside manual labour that does its best to exhaust him. He gets into bar fights and even finds himself stepping into two or four fighting rings. Nostalgia eventually pulls him back to the military.

He spends over ten years in service again before he meets George Kendall, a young man who feels out of place amongst the violence. He catches William’s eye almost instantly and he finds himself sharing his poetry with a stranger for the first time ever. George draws him a portrait and he sees his face for the first time in nearly a century. It’s almost too easy to fall in love with him.

He knew.

He might not have been training for as long as Legundo, but he knew what a broken leg looked like. He wasn’t going to be able to run like this. Even if he wasn't pinned down by ten tones of concrete and brick.

He had ducked into the building to avoid enemy fire. He'd been nicked in the shoulder and needed a moment to at least stem the bleeding.

He had given Legs his kit so he was down to a handful of bandages on his belt.

He was bleeding a lot more now.

Someone had thrown a grenade in. Not close enough to hurt more than the ringing in his ears. But close enough to bring the already dilapidated building crumbling down around him.

He attempts to wiggle his toes in a blind attempt at hope.

His entryway had been blocked off almost instantly, forcing him deeper into the building. Occasionally the shuddering and crashing would calm. A lull in activity accompanied by the tell-tale sound of far too much still moving to stay still.

He forces himself to slow down. Blind panic won't get him anywhere here. Find a way out of possible. If not, find a place that is most likely to support some of the precarious weight above.

He can hear people shouting in the distance. It sounds like his name.

Follow the sound of gunfire, sound means escape, no one would be stupid enough to fire a gun inside the collapsing building.

He spots natural light and has to force himself not to bolt for the exit.

The building gives another heave and he loses control and panics, sprinting for the light.

He tries to call back. He's here. He's still alive.

He reaches the window as the floor drops out from under him. He doesn't make it. Bracing for impact he falls. He's not sure how far but he landed badly on his ankle. It twinges in a way that demands attention. Attention he cannot give right now.

His lungs are full of dust and smoke and the pain suggests He's probably broken a rib or two.

He begins to carefully climb, mostly surrounded by rubble, the window above still the closest sight of safety.

He's hauls himself up, ankle and shoulder screaming in tandem as he climbs.

One step after the other. He's so close.

A familiar voice registers nearby. Somebody just outside.

A foothold gives way, He's sliding back down. The building is shaking again, dust thick in the air. The light is blocked off and his world goes dark for a moment.

He is aware of falling again, bashing and scraping against things as he attempts to brace.

A knock to the back of the head has him blacking out for a moment.

That's Legundo. He calls out again. A soft, strangled, desperate thing. The air is too dry to whistle and he can't reach anything on his belt or pockets.

He comes to on his stomach, sprawled uncomfortably over stone and rubble. There's a stinging pain over his arms that tells him they're probably grazed open from the slide.

He attempts to push himself up and has to stifle the scream that begs to rip out of him as he feels his leg drop fully out of its socket.

He slowly lowers himself back down, twisting carefully to get a look at his lower half.

He's so tired, adrenaline beginning to ebb away. He calls out again, even though he knows they won't be bake to help.

His legs and hips are completely buried. Covered by rubble and rock. He can just see where his leg dislocated, the limb poking out at a weird angle against his torso.

Everything hurts.

The voices are getting louder now, and there's the sound of something moving close above, feet or hands maybe.

He takes a moment to assess how easy it might be to dislodge some of the weight on his legs. He attempts to move his other leg, followed by another wave of pain.

He's stuck with his hands alone to shift what could easily be a whole building and a half of broken concrete and steel.

He becomes aware of the sticky feeling of blood as he lowers his shoulders back to the ground. A gash across his stomach. Pain drowned out by adrenalin and other problems.

Fresh light breaks through. He can hear Legundo closer now. He shouldn't have called him over, should've let him move on. He knows the doctor won't be able to leave him here. He knows it's the only option.

He knows he's going to die here.

There's no time or resources to spare for a man who won't even be able to walk back to camp. Let alone the manpower to get him out.

There are voices saying something. Asking questions. He can't focus on them enough to understand.

Someone is getting closer, small pieces of rubble trickling down and past him.

Familiar hands touch his face, lifting hi head gently to look into friendly, worried eyes.

"It's okay. You've done so well."

The doctor is there, moving around, checking over his injuries. There are others, maybe two. He's aware of them checking the rubble around him.

He doesn't push himself to speak again, just lets himself float.

There are tears running down his face.

Someone is trying to get his attention, he just wants to sleep. Maybe then the pain will go away.

They won't let him sleep. Persistent hands shaking him as someone yells to him.

He pushes his eyes open, doing his best to focus.

He misses him.

Legundo looks down at him, concern written into his face, the careful mask of indifference peeking at the edges.

He doesn't want to die alone, but they don't have the time to wait with him.

He'll see him again soon.

He doesn't need to ask. They both know. Both come to the same conclusion.

The other soldiers leave them alone and he lets his eyes fall closed again in preparation.