Realistic or Modern 𝐒𝐀𝐅𝐄 & 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 || arch & idalie

[BELIAL.]

𝐒𝐀𝐅𝐄 & 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃

BELIAL. and idalie
​

As 1944 draws to a close, two nurses caught in the conflict find themselves trapped; thrown back in time to that of Crimea, 1854. A war of similar yet devastating proportions. Awaking with new names and memories not of their own, both girls must decide⁠—whether to find out how to return home, or obey the heart.

On the other side of the battlefield charges the Light Brigade, men of the 13th Light Dragoons. Officers searching for fame, fortune, and reputation, unaware that the fair faces they’ve come to cherish ought to vanish as the hourglass seeks to return them home. Doomed to be immortalised in lines of poetry sung by those gratified by their sacrifices, these men fight for a future eventually written in history books, just one war out of many in a spinning globe that never ceases.

To love is to wound, and as the clock's hand shifts forward by centuries—there are some things time can't heal.

 

[idalie]

 

[BELIAL.]

 

[idalie]

CHAPTER ONE: THE BATTLE OF BALACLAVA
“Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me.”
​

The ground shuddered; dust swept up by a bombardment of grape and round shot, thudding heavy at the feet of the cavalry’s advance. From trot the horses rose to canter, obscured in the haze of a dry October⁠—thunderous hooves and gunpowder, plumes of smoke white as goose down set the brigades eyes on the line of fire. Men fell, tumbling from their saddles, sporting clipped jaws and yawning chests⁠, feet still tangled in the stirrups so that their mares tripped and fell in blind panic. Flashing the whites of their eyes, foaming at the mouth, loyal steeds ran with their dead. Dragging bodies for miles to be feasted on by all manner of insect and beast, carrion that best reminded men they were fertiliser under the thumb of the Empire. Their blood would soak here, in foreign lands, congealing amidst the soft, sandy soil until the rains came⁠—or the snows to disguise their growing mounds of English cadavers.

A Russian battery to the Brigade’s left and another to the right, funnelled them through the valley of death, horses falling in greater numbers than men. Whinnying underfoot, their corpses carpeting a trail forwards for others to clamber; sweat steaming off of slick fur, as if they’d barrelled off the track at Derby and lay splayed. Lord Raglan’s orders were now thrown awry in a fit of do or die. Red on navy uniforms caused dark patches of smeared burgundy, a deep wine seeping out beneath the breast-pockets and doubled-over abdomens, clutched in rigid self-preservation by lily-white hands.

Armed with only lances and sabres, quick efficiency gave no range and within distance of the cannon fire they lay their blades down, down into Cossack flesh as it turned from one violent act to another. Now here walked Cain, limping across Eden to sever his brother’s head as no stone ought manage. Modern war, they called it, though it carried the principle of brutality which had long survived since before the battle of Thermopylae. Such noise and movement disorientated the young and reinvigorated the experienced, even as officers began to fall, chain of command slipping to the next beneath, the next face, the next man who rallied them forward. Forward into the jaws.

Lieutenant Darling was no exception. His steed bucked and reared, unused to the close-quarters and cacophony unlike any he’d charged that wiley creature into, clutching a sword that rose above his shoulder in a swift arc preparing to carve men from nave to chaps. Foot soldiers; now pointing their carbines sporting the glint of bayonets that gutted and undercut the cavalry on their doomed march, lodged the lone cavalrymen between the guns and encircled the unprepared Light Brigade. Lord Cardigan’s figure no longer in sight, the sea of faces turned from comrades to that of Russian standard-bearers, pushed back by the sheer ferocity of such unexpectedly bloody tactics.

Clamping his knees in to guide the anxious mare, knotting his fingers in her mane, Edward’s jaw clenched to the taste of iron. A broad-shouldered bastard of an earl, Ned Darling had never contemplated the method of his death, only the church service where he’d hoped to have pretty mourners⁠—like a poem⁠—like Knights of Yore, so that one should be remembered in fair hearts and quick minds. It was superficial, thoroughly selfish of him, and yet the idea of being dead did not so much nearly scare him as the idea of dying.

Boys faces, a testament of youth, were upturned as they lost the struggle⁠—some he recognised from the canteen, holding naught even the glimmer’s of goodbyes as their heads lolled and came to rest beneath the morning sun. Winter carried a chill on the breeze that stagnated in the slopes of Balaclava, vastly different to that of old England where the hedgerows would be damp and wilting, whilst field mice retreated back unto the foundations of countryside homes, rejoicing the empty hearths left by those now abroad.

But not even the shutting of one's eyes could take them back, for the air was thick with powder and charred flesh, shells popping as they struck the dirt and spewed it upward.

His sabre flashed, striking a Russian gunner across the back of his exposed neck to a startled cry; yet while they’d begun to engage the gunners, riflemen surrounded the flank and opened volley fire. Hot lead stole the horse from under him, a shot which tore her stomach wide, causing the mare to crumple with him atop rolling forward over her reins and atop the unburied bodies of which he now joined. The clash and ring followed by great rumblings of guns tore his ringing head asunder, crawling on his front to the twitching beast whose breath grew laboured⁠—then ceased altogether as the Lieutenant’s knees soaked in the warmth of steady viscera.

Utilising the blade in-hand thrust downward into the loose sand, he forced himself up⁠, staggering and swinging, his gait unbalanced at the roar and muzzle flash which sent him tumbling; only feet away from a pocket of English Dragoons stubbornly strong-arming their ground against the Russian-held redoubts. Even as fatigue and concussion set upon him, the gradual sting of scrapes and bruises, Edward grazed his particularly aching cheek⁠—to find it split deep in the flesh, where it bled, swelling as flesh near came-away from the skull beneath, blood running between his knuckles where Ned pushed it back together in hopes it could be salvaged.

A price to be paid; and no God present to deliver judgement on what pound the enemy desired. Or was it equivalent to what he’d taken?

The charge of 600.

 

[BELIAL.]

It was the slow movement of bodies, seemingly unfreezing themselves through time’s steady hand, that kept Vincent knowing that he was alive. Battles were fast, a breath of space between yourself and your opponent’s sword before someone ended up with the sharp end straight through them. Yet it was the feeling of falling that brought it all down so fast. The sword that had grazed his side, then sliced the tendons out from his horse, had sent him flying. The pain was immeasurable, feeling as if he himself was purely on fire, when his back hit the ground and sent his nerves alight.

Stars. It was still daylight, a grey sky peeking out from moderate cloud cover, yet he saw stars. Not an unfamiliar feeling nor situation, and still it left Vincent feeling unsteady. He rose as quickly as his limbs could, already seeming to be weighed by lead at this point, and the stabbing pain in his gut brought him to his feet. He saw his horse squirming behind his eyeline, and already abandoning that route he sought to unsheathe his own sword. Fumbling at his blood-soaked side he pulled his sword, just in time for another dismounted Russian soldier to come at him.

Vincent could recall, beneath the steely gaze of his opponent, better times. He was not a man fit for war, as much as the accolades could make his chest swell with pride, or that the sense of camaraderie did manage to fill a hole where none other could. It was glory, for Vincent; not duty or honour. As such he would reminisce on evenings at the opera, lady in tow, watching in awe as the players danced on their stage. The intricate plunking of piano keys; a soprano’s trickling voice floating above it all.

He would always return home and play the tune from memory, having always had an ear for pitch accuracy. It would amount to a fixation for a time, endlessly playing the piano until he got the song just right or right enough; then attending the show a second time, he would delight in satisfaction, in knowing that he’d done it so well.

Whereas the simple pursuits of the arts and music were easily gratified, and confidence held in it, all of Vincent in his uniform, on the field with the trumpets sounding, was a different man. There was no instant relief, no figuring out if the song you’d slaved away at getting pitch perfect by simply buying more tickets. There was death, and there was sweat and starvation. It wasn’t pretty, not even for a Lieutenant; a role he was lucky enough to hold. He’d not wish to be just an officer again.

The delights were, then, smaller to be enjoyed. Meagre bites. Hardly a ration.

The clang of steel brought him back to reality, of the painful ache in his side and the stink in the air. Mud mucked his boots up to the knee, a quick disposal of the offending soldier sent Vincent’s gaze swimming across the valley. Things weren’t looking good, and the nerve in him took leave when familiar faces disappeared into the ground.

Vincent’s head spun, but reason still pulled him. There was no escape if he stayed, no escape but death.

To his left he saw swaying a few feet away Lieutenant Edward Darling, a man he’d made acquaintance with a handful of times, mostly in meetings with their Captain and whatnot; the official things, really. Every-time he’d seen the man’s expression and thought he was doing something wrong, which usually caused Vincent to act out in ways that would at least promote the appearance of a man in charge. At the end of it all, however, it didn’t matter to Vincent if they were enemies or the best of friends.

He was one of the only living men in sight, and he would not die alone.

Dragging himself, despite the ground threatening to become the sky, Vincent bounded across the distance, giving a cry of anger as he sent his sword across the back of an oncoming soldier from behind Edward. There was a brief scuffle, of clanging swords, and Vincent felt the swipe of a blade against his thigh.

He knocked the man in the house with the hilt of his sword, sending the Russian sprawling, but didn’t bother to finish the job. The blood from the man’s nose was enough, as well as the slow motion of his limbs.

Vincent advanced, coming around the side so as not to spook Ned.

“Lieutenant!” Vincent hollered, clapping a hand on the back of the man, clutching at his coat. He saw the blood coating Edward’s face, seething with a stutter as he was still not quite used to the viscera. “W-We’ve to make haste. We stay here and we are dead men. The charge is falling beneath the Russians. It’s now or never!”

He didn’t listen for a response, instead slinging himself in arms with his compatriot, using Ned’s strength as well as his own to keep the both of them upright. It would be hell to fight their way out, hoping that the last of the Brigade there who had not already retreated would stem the oncoming blows enough for escape.

 

[idalie]

The air was hot with cannonfire and thick with gunpowder. Smoke dried the mouth, conquering all senses as soot dirtied their faces and blackened the palms of their hands, scrambling through bodies of man and horse. Few were trapped, legs shattered and chests compressed beneath stiff cadavers of beasts that carried them there—yet would not carry them home. The whistle and crack of lead whipped one senseless, a cacophony of discordant instruments made to stun, ears ringing whilst adrenaline surged from the exhausted pit of a soldier’s stomach. A scuffle broke out from behind, causing Edward to turn in staggered motion; whites of his eyes flashing as he strained and twisted to glimpse what inglorious end the enemy had conjured.

Rather, instead of Russian steel rearing to strike him down, a British uniform and familiar face took its stead. For all the haze, Ned’s surprise proved palpable to have found Buchanan amidst the fight. Moreso, to now have owed him a drink. Vincent clapped Edward across the back prior to leaning upon one another for support, conversational shouts barely audible but welcomed, “Cardigan,” Darling spat, blood seeping between his chapped lips, settling in the crevices of his teeth, “He was a half-league ahead, hasn’t killed himself has he?” The corner’s of Edward’s mouth lifted upward, albeit set back moments later with a flinch.

Darling had long since proven his mettle back in India, an experienced cavalryman trying to advance his station whilst the old man paid off his commission to Lieutenant. What good would it do to have a poor bastard inherit, rather than the constructed image of a wealthy officer graciously taking his place at the head of the family. Illegitimate be damned. That aloof sincerity he so liked to construct his facade with was pockmarked by the desire to stand amidst men of noble birth, recognised not for his ability to rise above low-standing but as sharing blood.

Perhaps it was the hand of fate that intervened. Edward had little to do with Vincent, save for their canteen greetings and finding themselves running in the same officer’s circles. His fellow Lieutenant was a man he’d neither resented nor saw as anything more than a troublemaker, the type to settle in for singalongs and never tire his appetite for celebrations behind the lines. In a small way that thoroughly disgruntled him, Ned realised he envied Buchanan for their differing circumstances. Alas, what would envy do to dead comrades? The words Now or Never were spoken in truth, and time proved no ally of an Englishman.

Raising the sabre, Darling pointed westward calling to Vincent, “You see the gap? The battery to our right’ll be difficult to dodge on foot, but by God it’s the only way out! There’s Russians every step from here to D’Allonville’s men—we ought not put any faith in seeing those whoremongers from Heavy Brigade any time soon,”

Another shell splintered nearby, shrapnel narrowly missing both as it splintered, rocking the earth with a searing flash. Warmth like summer in Calcutta.

Ned started off, glancing toward Vincent’s wounded thigh. Just how far would they make it? Looking as terrible as they did, whether or not their names would be on plaques with graves in a foreign land seemed unthinkable. Death oft did that to men, whether one feared it or blissfully turned his head with the belief he could never succumb, it was a hard thing to gauge one’s feelings on heaven. Maybe it was the fear that rather than up, those men with guns and blades ought to sink before the judgement of St. Peter.

And God would ask: Where was mercy? As though he did not know they’d long since gutted her for the gold of their standard-bearers.

Crossing the terrain caused more difficulty than initially thought, navigating the ruined landscape with threat of fire cutting overhead. If they’d yielded to lying with the wounded, there’d of been no guarantee that the opposition would’ve spared them—nevertheless, standing soldiers made greater targets. The mess tangled them with Russian infantry, sabre’s drawing their split seams in flesh. Edward gripped Vincent’s hand slung about his shoulders, angling to gaze back at the now-rallying tatters of the Light Brigade. “When those boys retreat, we’ll be shot down or trampled, I don’t like our chances—well enough to make a run for it, Lieutenant Buchanan? Keep a pretty girl in mind.”

 

[BELIAL.]

Ned was right, though Vincent was sure that even if the other man was glaringly wrong about what their escape would be, he wouldn’t have thought twice about it anyway. Desperation clung to his bones, exhaustion not yet kicking in as the last vestiges of adrenaline pulsed through the pain that threatened to cripple him. For all that was left for them on the battlefield, it would only be blood and ruin if they stayed put any longer. The fear of moving, a wounded mouse circling for some way out of the trap, formed a cloud of worry at the back of his mind.

But he’d said it himself, hadn’t he? It’s now or never.

He looked to the sabre pointed, shuddering as the shrapnel splintered and shook the ground. Vincent grabbed onto Ned a little tighter.

They wove and made haste, Vince’s limping remedied only by the iron grip he used to staunch the blood flow on his side. Holes in the ground, flung about bodies and ducking every so often to watch yet another brother in arm be struck down, sought to stray them from their path. Vincent wasn’t sure where he was focusing; simply that he saw a glimmer somewhere over the crest, and that it was some sort of guiding light.

He turned his head slightly to Edward’s words, the last of which caused a small smile to cross his lips. It dampened in a minute, another sting of pain lancing through his side up near into his chest, he felt.

“I’ve got plenty to think of. If you’d like me to lend you a memory, I will,” Vincent spoke through gritted teeth, still managing to keep his smile somewhat tight on his lips. It was more of a grimace than anything, though he let his voice rise with the joke.

Begrudgingly he unlaced himself from Ned, giving the man a grip on the shoulder. The anticipation of pain would have kept Vincent rooted if not for the other man’s presence. Someone else who wanted to live.

“See you on the other side then, Lieutenant. If we can make it out of all the distractions and up the valleyside there, we should be clear.” He pointed with a hand, only then noticing the shake that trembled him. “But don’t wait up for me. If anything happens.”

Once the words left his mouth Vincent realised the potential finality of their situation. It was enough to make his gut twist. Still, he was not keen to give up just yet; so long as his body didn’t yield before his mind did.

For once in his life, a man so frequent to mouth off or rattle a joke, he didn’t know what to say anymore.

“Alright, then.”

And when a chorus of yelling at its loudest brought about a quick flash of movement, another shrapnel lodging into the ground behind them, it seemed time enough to take off.