For Emma, Forever Ago

Iver and John approached the doorway together, side by side. Their rifles were gripped high, held ready to fire. Each man moved on cats' feet, the rest of their regiment behind them. Pressing himself into the muddy trench wall, Iver breathed in and out quickly and then peaked around the edge of the doorway. The room inside was identical to the one they had just fought their way out of. It was empty; Clereece's regiment having taken guard duty that night. Iver wondered briefly whether any of them had been left alive. Creeping past the doorway, he began the walk to the next. Each bunker was spaced a hundred feet or so down the trench. It was possible that the-

The sound of a man gasping cut the air. It was followed a second later by a cracking, which echoed across the battlefield like sharp thunder. Spinning, Iver raised his rifle and shut one eye. Half his vision gone, his entire gaze filled with the sight of John's face. His mouth was wide, his eyes staring straight ahead. He fell without a word.

"No!" Iver screamed, at the same time his lietuenant barked, "Snipers! All men down!"

Iver's knees hit the boards, followed a moment later by his rifle. He stared wordlessly at John's body, tears leaking out of his eyes and cutting trails through the grim of his ash-covered cheeks. Crawling to the man, he lifted his head and cradled it in his lap; Exactly as the man had done moments earlier to himself. When his hands touched the man's neck, feeling for a pulse, they were light and trembling. He was shaking so hard, he doubted he could feel a pulse even if there was one. Wetness was soaking into his uniform pants from the other man's head, but he ignored it.

"Officer Siemon." he coughed, his voice hard and choked. "God damn it! Wake up! Wake up, damn you! Get up and fight!"

"He's gone, Officer!" a man yelled from a few feet down the trench. By his voice, he couldn't be any older then eighteen of nineteen. It still held the tremble of youth. "We need your help now!"

Another crack echoed through the air, like a wooden beam snapping. A moment later, something invisible cut the air just above the soldiers head. He ducked even lower, wide-eyed and fearful.

Mist filled the trench, soaking through Iver's uniform and causing goosebumps to prickle along the edges of his limbs. Under his fingers, he could feel the curve of the other man's jaw, his hair coarse beneath his gentle touch. The man didn't move, his chest not moving an inch.

"Fuck." Iver shuddered, and then reached out one hand. With two fingers, he rolled clasp of the other man's necklace forward and unclasped it from his neck. Lifting it in one trembling hand, he tucked it into his uniform pocket. Exhaling deeply, he grabbed his gun and pushed himself to his feet. "Sleep well, brother."

Turning, he placed his gun on the edge of the bunker and lowered his cheek so that it was almost resting against the stock. He didn't rest it on the surface; it would break his jawbone when he fired, that way. Looking down the sighting lines, he searched through no man's land. His eyes roamed restlessly, stopping only when he saw movement. Finally, he saw the figure. It lay at the base of a shell-blasted tree, cracked straight up the middle. The man was obviously cocky, lying under such an obvious waypoint. Adjusting his shoulders so that they sat move comfortably, Iver clicked off his safety and touched the trigger with his finger.

There was no vehemence in his actions; no spite, no anger, no sense of vengeance. There was only calmness, vaguely reminiscent of the fog around him. Swirling and empty, suffocating the passionate heat of his emotions, dampening his rage. Letting one eye fall closed slowly, he sighed on the prone figure. There was another crack, and someone beside him screamed.

No! Be calm!

He breathed out, slowing his racing heartbeat, and pulled the trigger. Above the man's head, just inches to the left, the tree shattered. Chips of brown and black exploded out of the side, and then still form of the man rolled away instant. Iver lost sight of him, and had a brief moment of panic as he thought his target may have escaped him. Then he breathed in and out, slowly, and reloaded. The golden cartridge of the bullet pinged as it was thrown from his gun, and he raised it out of the mud. Standing, feet wide apart in the trench, he caught sight of the figure. The man was dressed all in grey, the usual spiked-metal helmet replaced by a black beret. He held a long-nosed sniper, the metal covered in cloth so that it wouldn't give him away by glinting in the non-sunlight of the afternoon. Even at two-hundred paces, Iver could see the grim set of his face. He lay in the mud once more, almost lost in the muck.

He was focusing right on him, Iver realized. He didn't panic, wrapped in his thick blanket of calmness. Swinging the barrel of his rifle toward the figure, he sighed on him and paused for a brief moment. He would only get one more shot, he knew. After this, one of the two would be dead. Letting go his breath, he sighed into the cool air and squeezed the trigger.

He knew instantly it was a hit. Even before he saw the spray of red mist and saw the man's body jerk backward into the mud. He couldn't be sure where he had hit the man, but his instincts told him that it was a direct hit to the head. The man who killed John was dead. unfortunately, the damage had already been done. Iver stumbled back, hit by an invisible force a split second later. Jerking back across the trench, he leaned against the mud wall and looked downward. He already knew what he was going to find. A red stain was spreading out from his chest, just below his collarbone. He could feel the blood, hot and sticky, soaking into his uniform and running down across his stomach. He tried to call out, but couldn't find the energy.

"Officer down!" he heard a man yell, the sound seeming to come from a long way off. The world was closing in again; faster than it had when he was choking. Gasping, Iver let his rifle fall from his nerveless fingers and clatter against the boards. There was a sound like a waterfall in his ears, loud and rushing. He felt his feet give out from under him, but he didn't feel the impact as the wooden boards rose to meet him. The world spun, pulsing slightly. The colours grew pale and listless, seeming to blend and wander into one another, turning the world into a smudged patchwork of light and noise. Lying on his side, Iver clutched the pocket with John's nametag in it protectively.

And then there was a pain in his arm, even sharper than that of the bullet. The world froze, came into clarity, and then exploded into light.

And that - was the morphine.