Excerpt from the upcoming fic
Thursday, 24 October 2024 06:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
temrisI never really do this, but it's been too long since I've published anything on Ao3 (last drabble posted on April) and the kind hexmix talked to me about it, making me get even more excited for it. Here's an excerpt for anyone interested in a WW1!AU for Chris/Leon.
That morning, Léon opens his eyes on his own. For the first time in a while, it’s not the munchings of the rats devouring his fallen friends’ bodies; nor is it the surprise artillery coming from the other side at the first light of the morning when the sergeant sends a boy down to fix some of the barbed wires. His back is resting on the few crates he piled up on each other, in front of his chest is his rifle placed firmly in his hands – he had not moved an inch since falling asleep. His muscles ache as he slowly gets up, but he’s not complaining: How lucky he is! No one entered the cellar last night to catch him in that position. As for an excuse as to why he missed his bed… Guard duty maybe, he thinks at the spot. A lie – truth is very much embarrassing: He was with his comrades, drinking there; drowning his sorrows of his betrothed leaving him simply through a letter.
The narrow wooden stairs creak under his feet as he walks out the wider dugout for the pantry, swinging his rifle to his back. His fingers tightly grip the thread that holds the weapon on his shoulder as Léon fixes his posture to greet the sergeant should he meet him first thing in the morning.
But he doesn’t; in fact, after even a full minute of a walk, Léon’s not faced a single person. The wind blows gently from the west, messing with his short blond mop and the tweets of early birds reach to his ears for the first time in weeks.
He gulps. This much of quiet is nothing else than ominous. What if the Germans sneaked up their trenches, and murdered every single one of his fellow gunmen? While he was sleeping so soundly there, unaware of the bloodbath going on..? A pang of guilt stabs at his heart. He turns his eyes towards the ground with fear.
There is only mud beneath his feet to his relief, Léon sighs but the mystery is yet to be solved.
It's still a very early draft, but this part has been edited a bit at the very least. :P Writing in English is a challenge, especially for someone whose native language doesn't rely on using pronouns in every sentence.
hexmix talked to me about it, making me get even more excited for it. Here's an excerpt for anyone interested in a WW1!AU for Chris/Leon.That morning, Léon opens his eyes on his own. For the first time in a while, it’s not the munchings of the rats devouring his fallen friends’ bodies; nor is it the surprise artillery coming from the other side at the first light of the morning when the sergeant sends a boy down to fix some of the barbed wires. His back is resting on the few crates he piled up on each other, in front of his chest is his rifle placed firmly in his hands – he had not moved an inch since falling asleep. His muscles ache as he slowly gets up, but he’s not complaining: How lucky he is! No one entered the cellar last night to catch him in that position. As for an excuse as to why he missed his bed… Guard duty maybe, he thinks at the spot. A lie – truth is very much embarrassing: He was with his comrades, drinking there; drowning his sorrows of his betrothed leaving him simply through a letter.
The narrow wooden stairs creak under his feet as he walks out the wider dugout for the pantry, swinging his rifle to his back. His fingers tightly grip the thread that holds the weapon on his shoulder as Léon fixes his posture to greet the sergeant should he meet him first thing in the morning.
But he doesn’t; in fact, after even a full minute of a walk, Léon’s not faced a single person. The wind blows gently from the west, messing with his short blond mop and the tweets of early birds reach to his ears for the first time in weeks.
He gulps. This much of quiet is nothing else than ominous. What if the Germans sneaked up their trenches, and murdered every single one of his fellow gunmen? While he was sleeping so soundly there, unaware of the bloodbath going on..? A pang of guilt stabs at his heart. He turns his eyes towards the ground with fear.
There is only mud beneath his feet to his relief, Léon sighs but the mystery is yet to be solved.
It's still a very early draft, but this part has been edited a bit at the very least. :P Writing in English is a challenge, especially for someone whose native language doesn't rely on using pronouns in every sentence.
