#au!will schofield | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

schofieldshelmet · 1 year ago

Text

there were two of us

Blake-magically-comes-back-to-life-but-doesn’t-remember-anything-that-happened AU

Chapter One: adrift | Next ~~

December 6, 1917.

It is bitterly cold in the French town they are sheltering in, icy snow blanketing the abandoned maze of streets and alleys, crumbling stone littering the earth like a scar. Scattered groups of soldiers dot the streets like ash, huddled together for warmth and whispering in hoarse voices, but Schofield sits alone, jammed against a wall with his legs tucked up to his chest. The frigid air leaks through cracks in his boots and stings his cheeks like ice, but he is too tired to care, nose buried in the collar of his coat and eyes half-shut.

They’ve been here for a handful of days awaiting further orders, half-hearted camps set up throughout the streets and alleys of the abandoned town, spirits lower than usual in the frosty weather. As usual the other men avoid Schofield, barely giving him so much as a side-glance, stepping out of the way when he approaches, clear discomfort on their faces.

But he doesn’t really mind, choosing to ignore the looks, the frequent whispers that that one’s not quite right. He used to be a loner from the day he enlisted, up until last year when Blake first laid eyes on him, propped alone against the wall of a trench, reading a letter from home for the thousandth time.

Oi there, mate, you’re looking a bit pasty, Blake had said, and offered him a drink from his ration flask of rum, and from that day on they had begun a tentative friendship. Blake had other friends, certainly; he exuded a certain warmth and friendliness that no one could resist; but, not that Schofield quite knew the how or why of it himself, he was the one Blake chose to stick around, whether they were eating rations or cleaning their rifles or another of the endless mundane tasks they performed daily.

The tentative nature of their friendship had eventually morphed into something genuine, something soft, something gentle when the bombs were falling in the distant night and Blake, still so young and inexperienced, was afraid as the sky flashed white. And eventually they were nearly inseparable, always casually spoken of together by their fellow soldiers, comfortable enough with each other to discuss their families, their fears, their hopes and dreams.

I could be like an uncle to your girls, Blake had said more than once, lopsided grin on his face. Come on, you know they’d love me.

You’re too young to be an uncle, Schofield had usually replied with a demure expression, but secretly he liked the notion, because he always took that to mean Blake thought of him as a brother.

But now Blake is dead, and Schofield is rumored to be the East Surrey’s own personal lunatic, gone stark raving mad after that one mission that no one can remember the particulars of, except for the fact that it was when he lost his only friend.

( What was his name again? the others always whisper when they don’t think he can hear).

(“Blake,” he always answers them, as shock and discomfort leaps onto their faces before they turn away. “His name was Blake.”)

Already the rumor of his mental state is spreading to a few new conscriptions who arrived a week ago on a couple of lorries. Most of them are stationed several streets down, still adjusting to life outside of their training, mostly young and fresh-faced and hopeful. But Schofield’s seen the looks, heard the murmurs. He knows they’ve heard things about him. Perhaps they’ve even witnessed his often empty-stare, yet another factor in support of the lunacy claim.

That one over there…he’s not quite right.

Bit of shell-shock, then?

No one knows for sure. Someone died, that’s all we know. But he was in the Somme.

That’s enough to do anybody in, I would think.

He swallows, huddling further into the collar of his coat, wind whistling through the cracks in his boots. He’s tired, so tired of being ridiculed behind his back, of being whispered about, of having no one who understands. Sergeant Sanders is kinder and more sympathetic than most, but there is still a guarded wariness in his eyes as if he knows he is talking to a man who died long ago, a man whose will to live vanished along with his sanity.

He’s tired of the rumors.

He’s tired .

In all honesty he can’t remember the last time he got a decent amount of rest because whenever he falls asleep it only takes him a few moments and then he is there, he is kneeling in the cold and muddy earth and Blake is lying dead in his lap and cherry blossoms are spilling from his eyes and mouth and turning to blood, crimson blood, and he can smell it in his sleep.

Of course he never mentions any of this in his letters home. He writes about the weather and the bird that landed on the toe of his boot one morning and the stale rations that don’t compare whatsoever to Winifred’s cooking. He writes about how he misses his two girls and how the other day it was sunny for once but he never mentions the nightmares, he never mentions the sweaty, gasping terror upon waking, the grief that grips him when he is alone. He doesn’t want them to worry. So he doesn’t mention it.

But right now Schofield is just too tired and even the nightmares aren’t enough to deter him from letting his eyes fall shut. He presses even closer to the bit of crumbling wall behind him, teeth clamped tight together to control the ever-present shivering, and blocks out the chatter of soldiers further down, the sound of wind howling through the alleyways, the rough shriek of a crow in the distance.

He is drifting, gloved hands stuffed deep inside the pockets of his coat as darkness swirls around him, when suddenly the sharpness of footsteps scraping through snow breaks into his subconscious.

A painful, rattling cough and a tongue clucking in sympathy and then a voice.

“–ergeant Sanders, have y–”

Familiar. There is something familiar about the voice and the tone and the accent but he can’t remember, he is tired, so tired–

“—ich way is medical bay? Chap here’s got a touch of fever.”

And suddenly his entire body jolts, half-asleep, and then abruptly he is shaking all over and not just from the cold. Numbness has settled on his mind like a thick fog, but all at once it seems to dissipate and he is alert, rigid, eyes snapping open as he gasps in a breath.

“—down this street and take a left—”

“–ank you, sir–”

Schofield’s gaze hones in on a soldier just up ahead, standing talking to Sergeant Sanders with a coughing man by his side, and suddenly his heart is pounding because it can’t be it can’t be it’s impossible it’s impossible but what if it’s not–

He’s on his feet before he can register anything else, not even bothering to collect his rifle in his panic as he careens forward across the icy cobblestones. A few men pause their idle conversation and turn to look at him, skepticism flashing over their faces when they realize who’s sprinting past, but he scarcely even realizes they are there.

And he doesn’t mean to call out, not yet at least, but it slips from his mouth and he can’t stop himself and it’s too late.

“Blake!”

The soldier ahead of him stiffens slightly, and then he is turning and it is him, it’s Blake, standing there in the snow with frost-pale skin just like the day he died, dark eyes confused as he watches Schofield skid to a halt on the icy ground. Schofield can scarcely breathe, his lungs suddenly tight in his chest as he stands and tries to piece together words to say but can’t think of anything at all.

“…I’m sorry, do I know you?” Blake asks slowly after a minute. The man beside him steps away to spit into the snow before he’s seized by another fit of coughing. Blake fidgets, waiting for a response, knuckles white on the barrel of his rifle.

Schofield stammers softly, eyes stinging with a sudden flash of tears, and then presses the back of his hand to his mouth, still at a loss for words. “Blake– you’re– you’re back,” he whispers finally, brokenly, and doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “I– why didn’t you come…how did–” He pauses, swallows, cracked lips pressing briefly together, and suddenly he can’t stop himself and he is stumbling forward, wild, unhinged, grief and joy fighting within him, one arm reaching-

Blake’s face darkens and he takes a step back, but not before Schofield’s hand snags onto his sleeve. His voice snaps out like a bullet, colder than the snow lining the ragged streets, stabbing into Schofield’s heart like a knife.

“Mate, I don’t know if you think this is funny or what, but I have no clue who the bloody hell you are, so clear out, all right? I’ve got this sick chap to take to med bay.” His scowl, so uncharacteristic of him, deepens as he jerks his arm free of Schofield’s grasp and steps back.

“Ah—” Sergeant Sanders appears suddenly at Schofield’s elbow, one hand reaching to grip his upper arm as Schofield’s face twists in distress. “—Don’t mind him.” Sanders coughs uncomfortably, then in an undertone adds with reluctance, “He lost a close mate on a mission a few years back. Hasn’t been the same ever since.”

Blake’s face clears in swift understanding, combined pity and empathy filling his eyes, but the pain only stabs deeper into Schofield’s heart. He has endured hell and back since Blake’s death but this , this is too much, not when Sergeant Sanders knows better, not when he’s already suffered constant remarks about his crumbling mental state and just can’t take any more .

His throat is tight and he feels a hot stinging erupt in his eyes as he twists to stare at the sergeant in shocked disbelief. “ Years ?” he finally manages to spit, voice cracking with suppressed grief, his mouth sandpaper-dry. “It’s not been years, it’s only been months! Only nine months , you summoned me to that mission yourself, what the effing– ”

“Lance Corporal, that’s enough,” Sanders interrupts with a sharpness he rarely uses, and Schofield’s words stutter to a halt, his chest heaving, the cold burning in his lungs like a knife. The sergeant waves a dismissive hand at Blake, who has frozen in place before them, sympathy still evident on his face as he watches the emotion flickering in Schofield’s eyes. “Go on then, attend to your sick chap. I’ll take care of our boy here.”

“Um–” Blake pauses, faltering, the tip of his nose red with the cold. “Yes, sarge.” He swallows, pulling the collar of his overcoat closer to his chin and giving Schofield a final uncomfortable look. “Come on, then,” he mutters to the lad he’s brought with him, and then they move away down the street, where they are quickly swallowed by the mounds of rubble.

Schofield stares after them in shock, the hot stinging in his eyes growing fiercer now, Sergeant Sanders’ hand still firm on his arm. “That was– that was him ,” he chokes finally, scarcely feeling the cold as he turns a haunted gaze upon the sergeant. “How could you not recognize him? That– that was Lance Corporal Thomas Blake and he died on that mission in April, he bled out in my arms, and you have the bloody nerve to not– you didn’t even recognize–” He grips his head in both palms and heaves for breath as the Sergeant’s hand moves uncertainly to his shoulder. “How could you say it was a few bloody years when it’s only been months–”

“Lad.” Sergeant Sanders clears his throat. “I don’t know what the ’ell you’re talking about, but…for my part I think—”

“You think I’m insane.” Schofield’s voice cracks. “You think I’m insane just like everyone else does.”

The sergeant doesn’t respond, and that is confirmation enough. Schofield pulls free of his grip and takes a step backwards, boots unsteady on the icy cobbles as he draws a stinging breath. His fingers clench tightly against his palms as he turns away. Numbly he walks through scattered groups of men who eye him warily, who whisper amongst themselves once he has passed. Numbly he sits down again against his bit of crumbling wall and feels snow seep through his clothes. Numbly he draws his knees up to his chest and squeezes his eyes shut as tight as they will go.

And he thinks, as the impossibility of the situation finally begins to sink in, that maybe he really is insane.

#1917 #william schofield #thomas blake #blake and schofield #platonic #1917 fanfic

4 notes · View notes