John Lambert
My dearest and only John,
Are you well? If you are able to read this letter then I believe anyone with half a mind would pronounce you healthy, able-bodied, and strong enough to pick up a pen and write your mother back. Perhaps if I knew you had not enlisted to serve your country so much as you enlisted to avoid serving your duties to your family, this letter may have begun with soft words. Remember John, silence is also an answer.
Seeing how I must remind you of that, I may also remind you that you are not a fool John. You are a Lambert.
John pinched his lips tight and breathed out through his nose. If his mother was to step onto their campgrounds, she'd have yanked his ear off on a public stage in front of all his fellow soldiers. And frankly, he would have been all too deserving of it. In despite of his rebellious actions, she had been consistent in writing him since his enlistment. She may have been the lady of their house, but she was also a mother who worried about her only son going off to fight the French.
However, her Lambert son with a mind of his own and an attitude and ego that was as self-taught as it was guided, was not as frequent with his letters. His reasonings for keeping his letters short and infrequent was not so much that he could not be bothered to, or injured in the line of battle, but simply because part of enlisting was to put space between himself and his family. All their rules, all their standards, and all their
duties. He could never truly run away from his responsibilities, he was a Lambert and they simply could not ruin themselves over personal feelings and desires.
A fact that his parents never let him forget. Though, had they not, he would still remember it. The ideas had been engraved into his soul.
John leaned back in his cot, by far the most uncomfortable part of being a soldier, and held the letter over his face to continue reading his mother's rather wordy chastisement.
I do not ask that you write back with all the dangerous trials you've experienced or how you may be feeling wallowing in the dirt against French men. -
God, he would very much rather be wallowing in the dirt with men for a much different reason. And he certainly would not be detailing the event to his mother.
But you must write me to let me know you are alive and well. John, I cannot lose another son.
John's mouth dried as he lowered the letter and rested the piece of paper against his chest. There was no denying it, he was a horrible son. Of course, he had always know that because Peter had always been the best son, the best brother, and the best of men. John did not know what God was thinking when he took him away from this world - from him. More than once, he thought it would have been better if he had gone instead. It may not have been a fair trade, but a far more beneficial one for everyone involved.
He closed his eyes and sighed. Behind his lids memories of skipping rocks across ponds, laughing at jokes not fit for boys their ages, practicing the waltz in their great hall, writing letters to authors they just
demanded the ending must be changed, and feeling nothing but content and happiness, raced across his mind. The more he thought of it, thought of
him, he couldn't seem to recall a time he truly felt happy since his death. Part of John was buried with his brother, the part that knew how to be happy.
There was a shuffling noise and the sounds of heavy boots stomping into his tent. He didn't open his eyes to see who it was when he was very aware of the mere sound of his brutish gait. If John could roll his eyes effectively while closed, he would have.
He stopped but waited a few seconds too long to announce himself. "Sir Lambert." His gruff voice addressed him.
And so, out of pretend respect, John opened his eyes and began to sit up. "Colonel Talbot," he answered with enough esteem as he could muster in his voice. And muster he had to as the colonel was perhaps the most annoying member of their camp as far he was concerned. Annoying and quite evidently to John held a crush or some sort of infatuation with him. If the occasional leering looks and too-long gazes weren't evidence enough then his constant complaining about him, dissatisfaction with everything he did, and pushing around had to be.
Still, his eye for him was something John played with, even now, leaving his hair loose over his shoulders and the top buttons of his shirt unbuttoned. If the man tormented him, he would bully him back subtly. If the colonel was not his superior and an asshole to top it, John would not have minded breathing life into his fantasies by dragging him into quiet and secluded areas or blowing out the candles of his tent.
"I finished my duties earlier and took the time to read my post. Was there anything that you needed from me, sir?"
The colonel stared at him again too long without a word before clearing his throat and answering. "A patrol led by captain Hawkins was attacked. Fortunately, there were no casualties, but men were injured."
John's eyebrows furrowed into a frown. Reuben. Reuben was part of that unit.
"Your Irish friend was also injured saving the life of another soldier. "
His stomach dropped.
"I thought you would like to know." He cleared his throat once more and stared at John. Again.
But this time the blond was too busy being consumed by the fear of his friend being fatally wounded and the anxiety that he may lose him. The edge of his vision was blurring and his heart was beating so loudly against his ears that he almost missed the colonel excusing himself and leaving his tent and leaving John alone. The man was stuck in place, unable to move his legs or any other part of his body. The ear that had its grasp on him was all too familiar. It was the type of fear that never went away when you experienced it once, and it swallowed you whole when coming true.
The fear of losing someone.
John gasped for air and suddenly he had agency over his body again. He didn't know when he started holding his breath or for how long, but his breaths were coming quickly and far too short. He was a soldier. He was meant to be brave. He had to get a hold of himself. He had to see Reuben.
Quickly and clumsily, John rushed out of his tent.
Don't run, don't run, everything will be alright. He told himself that very lie before and just like then, it gave him no comfort.
He did not run, but he did not walk either. His steps were swift and long, his blue eyes locked on the infirmary. Before he even opened the flap to the large tent he could hear the groaning and cries of injured soldiers and the smell of blood and medicine. There were enough people there to spike John's fear. Amongst all these men and all the noise, no matter where he turned his head he couldn't find the redhead with the most disrespectful attitude known to all humankind.
"Reuben…" he called weakly for the man, he barely heard himself speak his name. "Reuben." He said a little more loudly this time with his voice more stable than the first. But not by much.
The beating of his heart sped and roared the deeper he walked into the tent, head swinging from side to side. His eyes caught the sight of blood, cuts, and bandages, all of which reinforced the fear in him until his legs couldn't bear to go any further. He stopped. He was lost.
"Drink this, Mr. Egerton."
Despite how the noise was overshadowed by the sound of his own heart, he heard the doctor's order. His head whipped around so fast in its direction that it wouldn't have surprised him if it fell off his shoulders. His legs began quickly moving before his eyes even caught the red hair over the other standing men in the room. There was no mistaking it.
John pushed his way through and halted at the edge of his cot, getting a full view of his friend. He was covered in dirt, both dry and wet blood, bruises, and scratches, but he was well enough to be up and talking. Well enough that he wouldn't die.
The relief was so immediate, the loosening of his tight muscles almost made John collapse onto the floor then and there. Luckily, the cot was there for him to grip on and keep himself standing. He hung his head and breathed again. His loose hair fell in his face as he gathered his composure, hiding how shaking his initial new breaths were and the way his face crumpled.
Reuben was a fool. An absolute blithering idiot and the worst part was that he didn't seem to know it. John was tempted to strangle him or punch him and give him another bruise to match his own.
John lifted his head once he was sure of himself. He brushed his hair away from his face and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt and walked from the front of the cot to the side. He clicked his tongue disapprovingly and shook his head.
"Let me have a look," John said, taking his face in his hand and turning it side to side as if he was trained in medicine. Surely he couldn't be any worse than the doctors here who, in John's humble opinion, didn't help so much when men had to be sent home anyone when their conditions so often took a turn. "You must really think yourself some sort of hero, Egerton," instead of the idiot he was, John would keep his scolding to a minimum for now. He wasn't his mother.
"Oh, but he is, sir Lambert." The doctor chuckled. He was looking up from his current position, attending to a man in the cot beside Reuben's. He was just as filthy, but most noticeably he had a large bandage on his eye. The blood seeping through the cloth told him all that he needed to know. "He saved this one." he gestured to the man in his current care.
"I see." John said, but his tone and expression read that he was still waiting to be impressed. "And yet he still came out with a significant injury. Could he have not saved you any faster, good sir?" He questioned, looking over the man with his arms crossed over his chest.
@wren. @DayDreamer
