Metal Birds

Chapter 27: Waiting in Vain

Dunkirk, France, May 22nd 1940

Waves crashed meagerly at the sand outside, digging pale white, foamy fingers in an attempt to cling on and remain upshore, before the rest of the ocean dragged them down again in a flurry of foam and seaweed.

The young man could see it from the window of the small French house, which had managed to perch its three wide stories of stone upon the hills along the coastline. He could hear the men about moaning and groaning in pain, harboring bullet wounds and gashes and red stains across their faces and clothing and the bandages haphazardly wrapped around them.

He was seated in a far back corner, a little way from the gloomy window. He had sat himself next to a small cot, where another man's limp form barely kept inside the fabric pouch. He was a mess, still a mess from when they'd found him, crying with his face in his hands and covered in dirt so thoroughly it was hard to tell who it was, until they'd noticed his wings, feathers looking like they were molting as he crouched there and shook with guilt.

Arthur had passed out when they'd gotten him to stand, prompting them to bring him back. He had a concussion, from what they did not know, and he had a nasty gash on his forehead. That, as well as the beginnings of a fever from what must have been an infection. Other than a few bumps and bruises, he seemed to be fine.

But they couldn't just leave him there, in his sorry state.

The young man glanced over as Arthur seemed to shift, before jolting up as if from a nightmare. His eyes were wide, his breathing erratic, and it took him a moment of looking around for a at everything as the young man leaned forward and put a hand on his shoulder. Arthur seemed to flinch, before glancing over with an odd wheeze. And then his wings sloped, and he settled.

"William?..."

"That's me." He offered a smile.

For a moment, all Arthur did was let out a breath, looking around, before looking back at William.

"What am I... what happened?..."

"I should be asking you."

Arthur's expression sobered, and he seemed to consider his words as he looked down.

"I got caught. Francis came... Francis... Francis, is he here?"

"Francis? The one you told me about at camp?"

"Yeah."

"I don't know."

"How long has it been?"

"A few hours. You weren't out for long. You should probably sleep."

"No... no... no, I can't..."

Arthur, oddly enough, sounded as if he was rambling like a madman. It took William off guard. He'd definitely heard Arthur mumble to himself before, sometimes in the kitchen, sometimes while he was preening, and sometimes when he was attempting to get his bullets into his clip; but it never sounded desperate or scared. At least, not until now.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine..."

It was too sharp of a response for William to be certain, and he could feel his own expression turn to one with a raised brow and a frown. Arthur merely pursed his lips, and moved to stand.

"Wait, wait."

"I need to find Francis."

"No, you need to lay down. You hit your head hard."

"No, no!"

Again, his words were sharp, and suddenly scared sounding. William pulled back, and Arthur stepped back as well, almost tripping over the cot as his wings stood on end. In the small corner, it was hard to notice, but it was clear that a few of the wounded men were staring on in uncertainty. William glanced about, before slightly nodding.