Chapter Text
Prologue
Monday, June 11th, 1917. France. Before.
So this is death. The earth grips, pinning him in place while the life is sucked from him. Every second stretches out for an eternity. He can't move. He waits for release, for the crunch of the death blow taking everyone around him, but it only laughs in his face and leaves him untouched.
He risks a glance to the side even though he knows it's wrong. If he looks then the man beside him will die for sure. There is no escape. His friends die, all of them, one by one by one while he watches. Helpless. A stab of jealousy pierces his gut. The friend at his side is lucky, he gets to stand on a corpse, he's not being sucked down into oblivion.
His mind rages. This isn't mud. This unearthly slime enveloping his legs and melding him to hell on earth can't just be mud. Some alchemy has taken the fertile soil of the farms and transformed it into a sea of blood and death.
There was a time when he'd laughed at the idea of hell. Not any more.
It's getting darker. The ear-shredding sounds of artillery fire are fading further away. Through the smoke infused twilight fingers reach down towards him. Hands wrap under his arms and hold him, and pull him up and free. His comrades are gathering him to them.
A slap on his shoulder proves he's alive once more. He hears Arthur's voice, fuzzy through the dense fog thrumming in his ears. "Come on Johnny. Johnny, you made it. It's the luck of the Irish we've got, for sure. Let's go brew up. You can walk fine if you lean on me a bit. Not that much, you fucker. Hurry. Johnny, can you hear me? You have to move. That's it. You're doing grand. Come on, it's gonna start pissing down again and the rats will be wondering where we've got to."
"Jesus. What took you so fuckin' long. Bastards." he says and they laugh, as he knows they would. There is never a need to say thank you, no need to admit your fear. They already know.
He came here to fight for hope and freedom. He came to win and make himself a hero. He loves his comrades with an intensity he doesn't understand and he would lay down his life for every last one of them. His men look to him and he leads the way despite the weight of his inadequacies. Those who are left have made it this far together against inhuman odds, but by now he knows there's only one way out of hell. He can't protect them however desperately he tries. All of his friends will die somewhere on this battlefield one day very soon. Nothing he can do will change that, but he will go on fighting fate to the end.
A week later death lays its ambush.
And - sometimes — death cheats.
Sunday, July 29th, 1917. France. After.
He stops dead in his tracks, and it's true, you can smell fear.
He thought he'd experienced everything terror could throw at him, but in the weeks since dying Mitchell has learnt new, strange and unknown variations of fear. First the corridor - the men. Then the nightmare of Herrick reaching out to him, trying to calm him with terrible fairytales. His violent, desperate rejection of the truth driving him back to the arms of his regiment. But that was just the beginning, the next four weeks were unimaginable. Eternal circles of fear and horror and disbelief.
And now here he is, standing shoulder to shoulder with nightmare creatures. There are only four of them facing a dozen soldiers, and yet the fear is all on one side. It's exhilarating to watch as the fight deserts them. It is almost funny seeing their faces as Smithy pulls out the knife embedded in his chest where a soldier had so expertly thrown it, still calmly moving towards them with eyes as black as the grave. Faced with the unholy sight the soldiers are shrinking away from them now, grinding their backs into the sides of the trench or digging frantically at the slime with their hands, but there's nowhere for the fuckers to go.
Mitchell steps down into the mud of the trench and stands over one of them. He's a boy really, a little younger than Mitchell himself - nineteen, twenty maybe. The boy drops his bayonet and remains frozen. Mitchell looks down into blue eyes washed with terror and smiles for the first time in weeks. He is interrupted by shouting behind him, loud enough to register over the booms of artillery fire.
"Just get on with it. Idiot!"
Sounds like the weasel. Seth may be Herrick's right-hand-man but Mitchell doesn't feel any need to listen to that streak of piss. Instead he turns his head to look at Herrick.
"No hurry son." Herrick steps closer above him. "No reason why you shouldn't make the most of your moment to be a hero."
Mitchell looks down at the boy. Something stirs in him but he doesn't choose to recognise it. Maybe it's pity, maybe it's disgust, but he tells himself he doesn't give a fuck either way. Whatever it is he pushes it back deep into himself. This post has been shelling his regiment for weeks. He doesn't know how many of his friends have died in the days since he ran, but it's too many.
There had been no choice but to run. He had to erase the picture of Arthur sitting there among the sandbags - the friend he left surrounded by the little they'd shared, never knowing the true horror of the betrayal but dead all the same. He ran from the shame of it, of course he did, but most of all he ran from the horror of knowing it wasn't enough. It could never be enough and he would kill every last one of his men trying to make it enough.
Instead he ran to find Herrick. He is one of them now.
"Stay back the both of you, give him time." Seth and Smithy stop where they stand on the edge of the trench at Herrick's command.
"I don't need time." The snap in his voice silences them all.
He knows what to do. He has learnt how to feed on the nearly-dead of all armies to quench the vicious thirst. He has also learnt how to stifle the cries of self-disgust in the quiet of the nights, and almost welcomes the faces and moans that thread their pain through his dreams. If he holds on to them maybe he can control this monster he is becoming.
But today is different. This is the crucible of war. Rage boils up inside him alongside the hunger. Fangs force their release and for the first time the feeling is exhilarating.
"Then I think it's time to step forward, my boy." The voice in his ear speaks.
The desire to evicerate every soldier cowering in the mud crashes over him. The blue eyed boy is stiff and shaking as Mitchell throws him sideways. He hears German words pleading around him until they fracture into primal howls of terror. As he slices into living human flesh Mitchell feels the raging heartbeat forcing the blood so hard and fast it hits the back of his throat.
Christ, it hadn't been like this before. The drugged blood of his friend and the seeping blood of the dying wounded didn't feel anything like this. Jesus Christ. Overwhelmed, he drains the life from the boy in minutes, his body frantically drawing it into him.
He doesn't even look towards Herrick for permission as he lets the boy's body fall away into the mud and stands on it as he propels himself over to the next soldier. They are all his to take now.
It is a liberation.
"That wasn't very comradely of you, Johnny-boy."
Seth reaches a hand down to pull Mitchell from the mire of mud and blood. "A couple each for us and, what, five, six for you, hey? You owe us."
Herrick shoos Seth behind him and gestures Mitchell forwards.
"We'd better get away from here. Listen to me Mitchell. Mitchell! Are you listening to me? Good. Right. The most important thing you need to remember is always to keep one pace ahead, keep moving. That way no unpleasant questions get asked."
Mitchell takes a step forward, but his head is spinning and he can't hold himself upright. He drops to his knees, breathing ragged, and wipes the congealing blood away from his eyes so he can look up at Herrick.
"So how do you feel, soldier?"
"Not afraid. I don't feel afraid." Mitchell looks down, "But my hands won't stop shaking."
"That's normal. There is too much new blood in your body. It will make you strong but you took it so fast your body needs to regulate itself. Don't worry, it will adjust and I promise you will feel like a king."
A few deep breaths and Mitchell hauls himself upright again. "Let's go then." But he can't prevent himself from looking over his shoulder at the carnage he leaves behind.
"Oh God." he whispers as he stares, hypnotised by the brutality of the scene.
It is Herrick's abrupt and commanding "Look away Mitchell!" that turns him around. "You've seen worse sights than that a hundred times over, haven't you?"
Mitchell nods.
"How long have you been here?" Herrick doesn't usually ask such personal questions.
"Sixteen months."
"That's a lifetime here. You survived the Somme with your regiment then. Come on, man, you've seen very much worse than this. You know what humans are willing do to each other - not for survival, you understand - simply for a furlong of earth.
"How many men did you kill in those months? You don't even know, do you? I wager it was considerably more than five. Don't concern yourself, son. These men? They were killers too. If you were returning to your regiment they would give you a medal for an act so courageous. Be proud, soldier. Such is war."
Mitchell looks down at his hands. The green woollen army gloves are blackened and sticky with blood and worse.
"It's the first time I've touched an enemy with my hands, not a weapon."
It's a long walk back to the encampment and Mitchell feels the strength growing in his veins. His strides become longer and faster and he raises his head up from the ground. He looks across battlefields laid out before him as a beautiful red dusk settles across a blighted landscape. The world is infused with a wild strangeness. A strangeness that excites him.
He rips off the filthy gloves as he walks. Without warning he checks, turns, and with a cry of effort hurls them as far away into the trees as his considerable strength can manage.
Nothing is said, but as he takes up the walk again Mitchell sees Herrick smile into the distance. It's a triumphant smile and he wonders why it should disturb him so much. He wishes Herrick would stop smiling like that when he looks at him.
But the grin is even brighter as Herrick puts a hand on Mitchell's shoulder as they approach the tents. "I neglected to say earlier, so I think now is a good time to mention it: happy birthday Mitchell."
Yes. He is one of them now.