When the war (of your choice, good van all, little change so far), the angst, slash and a Mephistophelean companion sclero put us a hand, I certainly do not pull me back.
Will that cause suffering of the poor Christ dell'ispirante, but I just can not give my worst, eh.
And Sky mica jokes, hell. We say that is evil. Let's say that's why I love it.
Characters: Friederich, Morgan
Fandom: Original
Timeline: World War I (more or less)
Rating: Yellow
Genre: Angst, drammatico
Warnings: Pre-slash
I suoi occhi non hanno colore, la guerra gli ha strappato pure quello. Non hanno sfumatura, intensità, non hanno luce. E’ come se la paura li avesse stuprati. Sotto le palpebre strizzate per il dolore non v’è che quello: totalitario, agonizzante terrore. Getta la camicia per terra e si sente svenire, mentre tra le sue labbra nasce un ululato roco, che s’infrange sulle pareti diroccate come una bestemmia. Che lui ormai come si faccia a pregare se l’è dimenticato. E si sente così Young, suddenly, and so helpless, and, hell, can not help but sing a litany of desperate calls home. Try to dab the wound with one hand, and it's just a huge, scary scratch, not the bullet that remained lodged in his skin - she is horrified - but, in his eyes, looks like a strip of the jacket and dark tortured death.
Then he hears footsteps, and snarling sufferer engages in the trachea. The gun is dropped off somewhere, perhaps in the hands of someone else, which may be more useful. It has nothing except boxcutter a Swiss, who knows what in his pants pocket. So trembling, and collects his chin on his chest, hoping that, indeed, this is enough because the earth swallow him.
Morgan can not stand it to wait for the fate before it occurs, because patience is a skill that develops with age, but we fear the birth. Left with a gurgle, face lifts and turns.
's dark all around. It 'a night without stars. It 's a moonless night. It 's just the night, and the only lights are those that go out in the eyes of the soldiers, who will fill cemeteries full of unknown soldiers. It 's just one night, but it's a bad night, one night is frightening, you know that a night of death and pain.
" Who goes there? " exclaimed, with that pure voice that knows how childhood spent among the green hills and grazing animals, which smacks of genuine innocence and fear. It makes no sense talking makes no sense to call it, it makes no sense to ask, and do not even know why I do. Perhaps for that silence hisses death.
A roar rumbles, somewhere, has tormented the ears so that he can not even determine whether far or near, but then a light invades the church, as the condemnation of a pagan god, cruel and ruthless .
And he sees the young man sees his eyes, which are off as his own, but the uniform is a different color. And the folds filthy and torn seams Morgan reads a single sentence: death.
E 'alone is helpless. And, Christ, is so tired, in a way that transcends the fatigue fisica e va a prosciugargli l’anima, semmai ne esista veramente una.
Morgan tenta di prendere fiato. Di respirare. Tenta, ma non riesce che ad emettere un rantolo sordo. E' impossibile, come se fosse schiacciato da qualcosa e non riesca a liberarsene.
« Non mi uccidere. » Sussurra. Ed è uno di quei sussurri assordanti, che scivolano lentamente, inermi, tra le labbra, che sono cheti ma profondi, e se t’azzardi ad immergervi hand it remains trapped. It 's a whisper and a prayer and is the only thing I can think of all the men around there, as they fight tooth and nail with his teeth and rolling in the mud and cracks.
His eyes did not dare to sit on the hole of the gun, that's all I can see the gun. It seems a huge gallery. Do not be surprised if, as unfounded, you plainly saw a white light. But the white light can not see, because he does not look at the gun. His eyes dart higher, trying to cling to the eye of the unknown. However, it is dark, you see only the glitter of wet irises and a blurry outline. And then sobbing, for he has overcome the fear, but has not yet come to resignation. Now there's only regret.
Regret for those little things in life, what a take for granted and not known at all, but then, when you're on the brink of the precipice, not even two currencies to pay you the ferry into the river, not the big dreams that torment you. No, the little habits, small joys, small duties. They are small pieces of a full life that fit together perfectly.
" not kill me. " repeats.
Morgan does not know how to die. Sometimes I think they are already dead and that those responsible has run forgot to warn him. Because, really, that can not be life. Because life is smiling and singing and running without a reason. That must be hell. It 's a fire lights that stand on the vault of heaven lethal stained with ink. And she cries and s'impreca and if you run just to chase the last breath.
Morgan thinks he is already dead, annihilated in the church because there are two guys who have forgotten what the future but have a history that hangs over their shoulders like the sword of Damocles.
And the rain is mixed with tears.
Maybe it is dead, think vaguely. Drowned.
sees drop the gun and his chest that follows slow motion and exaggerated. He holds his hand pressed on the side. Feels viscous, greasy and full of life than he is.
not know what to say, do not even know if there is something to be said. So he bends slowly, frustrating the same care that you use in front of a wild beast, and picks up his shirt.
felt foolish in trying to medicate when death is a few feet from him. He had strength, laugh at himself. But it is exhausted and it does not, however, looks at his shirt and he breaks down. Long strips irregular, like the shreds of his life.
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