Chapter Text
I listened with all of my might,
but was scared by the look in his eyes.
Like he'd already lost the fight,
and there was no hope ever in sight.
No hope in the air, no hope in the water.
Not even for me, your last serving daughter.
Laura Marling : Hope In The Air
There was nothing they could do for him.
It repeated in her head, over and over and over again, until the words pierced the inside of her skull, her head aching in pain. But her own discomfort was nothing compared to that of her patient and friend's.
Michael Walters was a soft-hearted young man in his early thirties, though you might not have guessed it from the bags under his eyes or the wrinkles of stress that had started on his forehead. Even with his aged appearance, he was an undoubtedly handsome man with a burly build and chiseled jaw. Standing above his fellow soldiers at 6'3, he was an intimidating sight for anyone to behold when his narrowed gaze landed on them. How fortunate his purpose in this war wasn't to kill but to save.
Doctor Walters had been an exceptional and skilled surgeon his years before and during the war. Like many of his Englishmen, he was shipped off late in his youth, a man with the world ahead of him, now stuck in Belgium's dreary and deadly trenches. He was from Small Heath, a little strip of Birmingham, England, and often spoke of his dreams of opening his own clinic there once he returned. He'd even gone as far as to offer her a place on his staff, not as a nurse, but as a doctor once she completed her training. "Assuming you haven't had your fill of Englishmen yet, Ms. Pryor," he joked. She'd laugh and wave away such a notion with thinly veiled excitement, never committing one way or the other.
A solid, well-crafted dream planned out years in the making - it was all the more crushing to see it swept away in an instant.
A sudden and ruthless attack in a relatively stable trench field had resulted in the kind doctor losing his left arm and acquiring an ungodly expanse of third-degree burns across his torso and neck. The arm had ended his dream of surgery. The infection in his burns, however, promised to destroy even more.
Now, here he lay in the dilapidated hospital in which he had spent so much of his time, only Rose Pryor to keep him company as she cleaned and applied new dressing to his badly burnt body. Her kind face was slightly pinched in focus as her normal braided blonde hair was messily into a bun at her neck. She looked as tired as he felt.
Unlike his fellow doctors, Michael was a modern thinker. He had no problem with women nurses stepping up to do the jobs of doctors when the need arose. From early on, he and the American nurse got along quite well and found a friendship in their love of books. On the rare evenings they found time to sleep, they would read to each other in turns passages of whatever they could get their hands on. A favorite of his being Oscar Wilde's "The Canterville Ghost". The play sat beside him on his small nightstand, half open but forgotten when his pain became too much to focus.
There's nothing we can do…
The other doctor had said it with such ease, giving up hope so easily. He was right; of course, Michael wouldn't be able to survive this time around. But he was her friend, her confidant, and the idea he'd just be left to suffer until succumbing to his wounds turned her stomach and sat heavy in her soul. So here she was, in the rare moments she was meant to be resting, once more with Michael.
"What's that line from the play?" He wheezed as he stared up at the ceiling cracks. "You know... about the garden?"
"You tell me, you've read it more than I have." She cast him a quick look, suspecting what he spoke of but unwilling to say it.
"Aye," He flashed a smile, "but your voice is so lovely." She shook her head despite a small smile. He always was a charmer. "Please, Rosie?"
Rose stilled in her work and looked at him. He was transfixed by something, eyes not leaving their spot on the ceiling. Perhaps to help him cope with the pain he must be having.
"Death-" The word caught in her throat. "Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one's head, and listen to silence." Rosie softly said, her words emphasized by the sound of faint gunfire outside. "To have no yesterday and no tomorrow... To forget time, to forgive life…"
"To be at peace." Michael finished, a calm look in his eyes as he continued to stare. Stare and stare, yet eyes seemingly unseeing.
Rose swallowed despite her dry throat; her hands, always so gentle, resumed her work. After a moment of silence, as much as a nearby war zone would allow, Michael's attention finally moved. His eyes turned to her, tired despite a spark of hope. "Rose?"
"Yes, Michael?"
"I'm ready for the grass."
Rose's hands stopped, her entire body tensing.
"Will you do it?" He asked through a cough. "Would you make the pain stop?" His eyes shone glassy in the lamplight.
"I'll get you more morphine." She stood up.
"No!" He shouted hoarsely. There would be little left to give him, that which she could would do nothing, and any more needed would just be a waste.
Rose looked at him. His chest was covered in gauze, his left arm gone, his right severely burned, probably to join the fate of the left had he had a better chance, and a heavy sweat drenched his fevered and pale skin. Septic. Suffering.
" Nothing more we can do… " repeated in her head.
"I'm tired, Rosie." He sounded meek, like a small child. It instantly broke her heart and what little resolve she had.
"I can't." She nearly mouthed.
"You can." He suffered a smile, the burns that inched up his face pulling tight. "If it's about God... he'll forgive you." His brown eyes darted to the gold cross she always wore around her neck. A devout Catholic girl, he'd often find her praying over the patients they couldn't save. "Don't you know you're one of his favorites, Rosie?" He tried to joke through tears. "Just look at you."
Rose couldn't help but glance down at herself. Her dress was stained and rumpled, the once gray uniformed permanently a brownish color underneath the mud and blood staining it. But even after a year in a war so vile it sometimes made her question her belief, she remained unmarked. Only a few scratches hurt her, and nothing that would leave any permanent mark. Even when the Spanish Flu seemingly waged its own war upon them, she had lived, her short period of pain and suffering mild compared to those who now lay dead or fighting for every gasp of breath.
"Nothing bad ever happens to you, Rosie. Should have remembered that before I went into the trench without you." His smile momentarily became a sneer, though his anger wasn't aimed at her. His eyes tried to look upon his failing body, but his head was too heavy to lift. Instead, he stared at her, seeking the ultimate act of compassion in a woman who always seemed too soft for the hell she'd entered.
"He'll forgive you." He repeated. "He'll forgive you for saving me."
"Michael…" She knew. She knew he'd be dead soon, maybe a night, maybe a week, but he'd suffer. The infection had set in; no more of their dwindling morphine could be given to a man considered a lost cause. There was nothing they could do for him. Except, maybe...
"Please," He gasped. "Rosie." He said her name so softly, not from lack of air or pain, but hope. A prayer. "Please...make it stop." He begged, a tear falling from his eye as his voice cracked and crumbled. Everything ached, everything burned, as if he was still being pulled from the trench.
"The only way-"
"I know." His breath rattled despite his sure words.
"Okay. Okay," She whispered. She backed out of the small room, her usually graceful feet stumbling as they seemed to drag. She grabbed a pillow from one of the beds that lined the empty hall before returning with it in shaking hands.
He made no acknowledgment of it clutched to her. "Say it again? You make it sound so pretty."
"Death must be so beautiful." She trembled though her voice was low and calm. Michael closed his eyes. "To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one's head, and listen to silence." She kneeled on the bed beside him, the pillow poised above his face. "To have no yesterday and no tomorrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace ."
Tears freely fell from her green eyes as she squeezed them shut, her body lunging forward to press the pillow over his face as she finished the scene. "And then the ghost remembered the poem and spoke, 'You can help me.'" She gasped. The little morphine he had been granted had dulled his senses but his natural instinct to fight back prevailed, his hand numbly trying to grab at her, holding her small wrist but making no attempt to move her. "You can open for me the portals of Death's house, for love is always with you-" He squeezed as she gritted her teeth and kept the pillow there. "-and love is stronger than death."
She put her weight behind it, eyes closed and teeth gritted as she finished the scene until his hand let loose its grip. With bated breath, she slowly opened her eyes, staring at the pillow spotted with her tears before hesitantly lifting it.
A year in war together. The blood, the screams, the fire… and for the first time since they met, Michael looked genuinely peaceful. His eyes softly closed, his mouth slightly parted. She choked a sob as she held his still form.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." She wept. Whether her apology was meant for him or God, she didn't know.
For a moment, just a heartbeat or two, she imagined him to be sleeping. And for that, she made herself silent as she could be, afraid to disturb his well-deserved slumber.
Rose removed herself from the bed, slowly easing her grip on the pillow until it fell on the dirty floor.
Rose had seen many deaths in her time, enough to have her fill of it, but never before had it been her hand to cause it. And they had. Trembling, she looked down at the blood and dirt-stained fingers; she'd not had the chance to wash them before coming to his bedside. And though her killing has been clean and merciful, she suddenly felt vile and cruel.
She felt ill. So violently ill.
She stumbled from the room, her knees shaking until they gave out from under her with a lurch. As her hand hit the muddied ground, vomit spewed from her mouth, adding to the mess on the floor. Tears ran down her face, the red in her eyes making their green color glow.
What had she done? What had she done? Oh God...
Her hand blindly sought out her only true comfort, the gold cross that hung from her neck. Yet the familiar piece of jewelry suddenly felt cold, its edges sharp in her palm.
"Tsk, look what you've done, now!" A familiar scolding voice came from before her. A familiar black shoe stepped into her line of sight. "You'll need a new dress." Her superior tsk'd motheringly.
Rose's bent head lifted, bile still on her chin, and tears streaming through her red eyes. Innocence in a storm of madness. "What?" She croaked as the world spun around her.
"I said, 'You'll need a new dress'." A gruff baritone voice repeated.
Rose blinked once, then twice, only to turn and see the memory of two years past fade from sight and mind, replaced by a rather irate cab driver looking at her like she was dim in the head.
Her green eyes darted to her chest, one arm crossed in front of her while the other's hand gripped tightly to her necklace. She let go of it as if stung, her hands tightening and uncurling as she inspected them.
The only markings were the lines from the cross' hard edges.
"Not from around 'ere, are you?" He asked her as he picked up her things from the carriage's back and placed the two bags on the ground beside her.
"No, Sir." Her American accent, clear and eloquent like the lady she was raised to be, responded quite simply.
"Knew it before you even opened y'er mouth." He looked her over for a brief moment. "Small Heath ain't no place for a lady to wear white." He grunted to himself. "Ain't no place for a lady at all." He mumbled.
Rose bit her lip to keep herself from correcting him. Her dress was pale yellow, but judging by how he kept rubbing his discolored eyes, she could easily guess his vision was going.
She pulled the silver coins from her coat pocket and handed them to him. He, in turn, counted the schillings to make sure they were all there before tipping his hat to her and taking his leave. At least until he had a change of heart.
"Are you sure, miss?" He usually didn't bother with the lives of his fairs, but this young woman was clearly out of place in her spotless, pretty dress and wide green eyes.
"I'll be fine." She assured, a simple smile brightening her face for just a moment, thinking back on what she was once told. "I'm a favorite."
The empty floor above the Garrison pub, greeted her soon after. Rose looked around the room, sheets grayed with layers of dust covered the tables, windows, and lights. A single uncovered lamp lit the wide and deserted space. "It's…" Filthy, neglected, and a far cry from what she had pictured. "-nice." She offered a closed-mouth smile over her shoulder. She didn't comment on the glass bottle that rolled over the curved floor when her foot nudged it.
Harry Fenton, the owner of the building and pub downstairs, scratched the back of his head. He was an older gentleman whose entire appearance she could summarize as long and narrow. From his tall, lanky frame to his soft, oval face, Mr. Fenton held no natural sharp curves except his protruding nose, long and narrow, like his face, except with a large plump end. His brown eyes were kind but filled with worry as he watched her.
Had he known it was a woman coming to look at the space, a proper one too, he would have tried to clean up things a bit more. He pulled a sheet from an overhead lap, giving the room a bit more light. A mistake, as a mouse scuttled by and back into the dark.
Harry cringed. This is why he had so much trouble finding a renter in the first place. Filth, rats, gangs and drunks always rushin' through...
"You'll tell your husband it's not usually like this, please?" He tried to appeal to her merciful side.
"I'm not married." She commented as she walked about the room, gauging the size and equipment she could accommodate. It had potential, at least.
"Oh, well, your father-"
"Mr. Fenton, I think you're confused, I'm not married, and I'm not a secretary. I'll be renting the space myself, for myself." She spared him a firm look. "Would that be a problem?"
"Yes." Rose's brows raised. "I mean, No!" He quickly corrected. "It's just that Small Heath isn't the best place for a young, pretty, single-"
"You're the second man I've met today that's told me that." She flashed her pretty white teeth at him. "I'll handle my affairs just fine, Mr. Fenton, I assure you."
Harry's long face scrunched in suspicion as he looked her over. He wasn't quite sure if he could rent to a prostitute or brothel owner. Even a lady like one like her. Drunk men and fast women often made an explosive situation, and he didn't have much money in his pocket to clean up what mess might result from that fuse blowing. Then there was the Shelby boys... "What exactly do you plan on doin' with the space, Miss?"
"I'm opening a clinic. Which, as you might have guessed, does take a bit of time. I saw you're also looking for a barmaid?" She quickly spun on her heels to face him. "Perhaps we could offer an agreement of sorts?"
Harry blinked, his face going a bit slack before tensing once more with a scoff. It was one thing to rent and work above but to be inside the Garrison and in the line of less-pleasant men's sight... "Are you mad?" He implored. Rose didn't answer. "Do you know about this place?"
"I'm here, aren't I?"
"Job's been filled." Harry shook his head.
Rose cast him a withering glance. "It was in yesterday's paper, just like last month's paper and the month's before that." She caught him in his lie.
"Believe me, love, I'm doing you a favor."
"I'm not asking for favors; I'm looking for fair trade. Admittedly, I don't drink often and have never been behind a bar, but I'm a great cleaner and quick to learn. I'm simply suggesting that in exchange for help keeping the place clean and stocked, my wages are taken off my rent till my supplies come in, and I can open for business."
It was appealing; it would indeed help. And for a moment, he considered it until he caught sight of her once more. Harry's brown eyes narrowed, wrinkles around his mouth setting firm as he clenched his jaw. "No, no, I don't think it's your line of work, Miss Pryor."
"In what way?"
"Emptying the spit buckets, mopping the -"
"Belgium." She suddenly said. She watched as the bartender's posture straightened while his brow furrowed. "I served in Belgium. Did you fight Mr. Fenton?"
Harry nodded hesitantly. "A-Yes, until my arm got torn up."
"Painful, I'm sure-" She began gently with kind eyes. "-Bloody, I assume. Or was it burnt? Was it quick to heal, or was it slow and festering? The blood and infections had a certain smell to them, didn't they?" Harry swallowed and nodded. "And I'm sure a nurse most likely treated it. Do you think I saw anything less in Belgium?"
"No." He sighed. "No, Miss Pryor."
"Then I think we agree I can handle a few spit buckets and the occasional sickness mop-up."
"You're too nice." Harry shook his head. "And too pretty." He looked her up and down, not lustfully, but observantly. "They'd have you up against a wall."
"I doubt they can be any worse than what I swatted away there, sir."
"Not these men." The bartender shook his head. "There's a gang, the Peaky Blinders. They're bad enough as it is, but the Shelby brothers... they're the worst of them. They come here often. If they decide they want you, then there's nothing anybody can do about it."
" I would do something about it." She firmly retorted. "But your concerns are noted." Rose seemed unbothered by the warning. "Now, back to that rent discussion-"
"Miss Pryor-"
A determined expression took over her face as she ripped the coverings from the window. "Please call me Rose, Mr. Fenton." Bright light immediately shone into the room, opening the space that now glowed with promise. "We should get familiar." Her eyes focused on the coal-black street below her. "I plan to be around for quite a while."