All Goes Onward and Outward by Agelast

Chapter 1

What possibly could make this pairing more depressing? Oh yes, a WWI AU. Their names changed to fit the context, some events unfold differently, but in the end, it's all the same.

Read Chapter 1

All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what anyone supposed, and luckier.

It was a known thing that Russell and Finn need not have been on the front-lines at all. With all the family connections they had between them, they could have spun out the war safely behind a desk somewhere, safe and comfortable. But here they were, in the mud with the rest, dodging bullets as best they could.

They were together more often than not, and if they were thrown together or deliberately sought each other out, it didn’t matter so much in the end.

You could always see them coming.

Russell, of course, stood out like a sore thumb. Everyone knew who he was and what he looked like. Rumor said what he was brilliant -- his father, after all, was a genius, and the apple didn’t fall too far from the tree there. Even the higher-ups took to consulting him, though they never took him off the line.

Maybe he didn’t want to go.

He also was the tallest man in the regiment, by far. It was almost ridiculous, how tall he was, and that was what most people remembered of him. “Oh,” they would say, “Well, he was very tall, you know.” That height, coupled with his bright red hair -- well, it was bright red when it was not covered in mud -- all of it marked him out. And it was true that he had adopted a certain sort of stoop at some time in the past, as if to apologize for the fact that he took up so much room.

But he never slouched when Finn was around, though the latter was by no means a tall man.

Though sometimes Finn would turn to him and say furiously, “Get down, get down! Do you think I want you to get shot in the head right next to me?”

Finn was always making such odd jokes. It was quite distressing, but black humor was always rampant in the trenches in those days, and no-one minded much. Russell certainly did not.

But to Finn then. Well, where Russell was expansive, in both mind and body, Finn was a concentrated brew. Compact, light on his feet. Impetuous, to a fault. Impulsive. A good leader, a bad planner. He was pale (everyone was pale as mushrooms, nowadays) and had dark hair that was always covered up by something or other.

Finn always seemed always to carry around unnecessary bits of metal with him (he had at least four pocket-watches as well as any sort of golden bits and bobs that came his way) with him, everywhere he went, so much so that the men would joke that if you could hear clacking, the Captain couldn’t be so far away.

A magpie, they called him. He’d string the stuff in his hair, if he thought he could get away with it.

Anyway, they were always together. To be honest, it did seem like Russell would make Finn think, and Finn would make Russell laugh. Everyone could see that they were good for each other. Everyone, of course, except their families.

Specifically, their fathers, who were, as it happened, sworn enemies.

Wasn’t that exciting?

For they were brothers too. More about that later.

Finn and Russell, they were related in a complicated way that some families get, twisted up and confusing for all but the most knowing. Their grandfather, who was of royal blood, once had married to a great lady of the land, whose hands were clever and quick with the needle. An artist. They lived in great happiness for some time, until their first -- and only -- child was born. Something shifted, something broke within the lady, and she grew sad and then sickened. She died, leaving her husband and son terribly grieved.

The son, of course, was to be Russell’s father, the boy genius. Who, even then, was touched by divine inspiration and an unforgiving temper. (But that came in later.)

The widower was unhappy with his lot -- and who wouldn’t be -- to be alone while still young and still longing for love and more children...

Well, he was not alone for long. In the spring of the year his wife had died, the widower was walking in the woods when he saw a sweet scene indeed-- a young woman with the sun on her shoulders and a crown of flowers on her yellow hair. She sat, seemingly alone, singing to herself. He was moved by the sight of her.

It was love at first sight, or so the story goes.

They were married by autumn, to every-one's great surprise. Well, the scandal was monumental, it was all anyone talked about for years and years. One would think that a widower had never gotten remarried before!

But they never had, not with their sort of people.

The boy saw the marriage as an ugly slight on his own dead mother, and held his new step-mother and her children responsible. (But he held his father blameless, they loved each other beyond all reason. The father would not hear a bad word against his eldest son. Perhaps it was guilt that did it, in the end.)

The split between the family grew worse after ever passing year, and when the children grew up and had their own children.

Russell and Finn did not even meet until they were both quite grown up. It was an extraordinary coincidence, for the cousins shared the same train-compartment, going to the university. They got to talking, and found, to their mutual astonishment, that they shared much in common, including a grandfather.

But they were friends first, before they were cousins.

Much to the disappointment of their own fathers.

Any feud could fizzle out if both sides refused to fight. Not that their younger siblings had any difficulties in that regard. But fractious and biting though their families had become, the eldest grandsons found common ground. There was peace, for a while.

When the war came, they were glad of it, glad to get away and join something much bigger than that squabbling between their families.

They were very young then, and knew little of the world.

+

Finn could hear Laurie before he saw him. It was unmistakable, even in the dimness of their trench shelter on Cloudy Lake Lane, with nothing but a single lamp to guide him in. The voice was unmistakable, pitched low now, but still as vibrant and golden as ever. Laurie was a singer of the highest caliber. And a poet to boot.

He poked his head through the canvas-flap, and saw it was empty of all except for Russell and Laurie, as well as Sergeant Horner, who was curled up in the corner, fast asleep.

Finn sidled in as quietly as he could, so as not to break the lull or wake Horner, so of course, he walked right into a cot, which had been haphazardly pushed aside, and pitched head long into the abyss. Or, in this case, into Russell, who took being blundered into by Finn with typical grace.

“Clumsy, clumsy,” he chided, strong hands pushing him away.

Finn made a wry face as he righted himself again. “Someone moved my cot,” he hissed, not missing the broad grin shared between the brothers. He sat next to Russell with a disgruntled thump. Horner stirred briefly, but lapsed back into sleep..

Russell turned back to Laurie. “So, how goes it? Not too busy scribbling poems to check on your little brothers, are you?”

Laurie made a face, and muttered something about how he wasn’t the only one neglecting his duties. Russell’s serene face told enough of what he thought of that. Finn, who found the on-going tensions between Russell’s brothers to be tedious indeed, and so asked Laurie about his poems.

“Any chance of getting them published?”

Laurie looked haughty. “I do not need publication to confirm the quality of my work.” An offended sniff. “Especially if you look at the mind-numbingly stupid patriotic blather that does get published. None of it has a grain of truth or beauty in it at all. They’re not worth paper they’re printed on.”

“You’ve been rejected, then.”

Laurie sighed. And even then, it was a musical sigh. “Every last one.”

“Wait a minute.”

After a minute of intense searching, Finn pulled out a half-full bottle of whiskey from a pile of discards with a quiet cry of triumph. Russell set about finding reasonably clean cups. They were all well set up, and drank quietly for a while, until Russell spoke up.

“Cheer up little brother. If no one is reading your poems now, they’ll do it in the future. Your poetry is good and new, so I suppose it takes getting use to.”

Finn piped in. “ And if you get killed, it’s even better.”

Laurie choked on his drink. “Better? How?”

Finn waved his hand vaguely. “Because it’s romantic, of course. Tragic young poet, writing clear-eyed verse in the midst of the greatest conflict mankind has ever seen, all that promise snuffed out by an uncaring bullet. Or blown apart by a shell. That’s less picturesque, but still, good enough. Why, future generation will be sighing over you for years to come.”

“I’d rather not have that sort of immortality.”

“Pfft. You’re no artist then.”

“Finn,” Russell said, “I’d like it if you didn’t condemn my little brother to an untimely death. I am quite fond of him.”

“Ah, Laurie takes things much too seriously,” replied Finn breezily. “You all do.”

“You don’t take things seriously enough.”

“Don’t I?”

Finn gave him a look that was half a mugging grin and half a leer.

A judicious sigh. Russell pursed his lips together. “No, and looking at me in that ridiculous way won’t convince me otherwise.”

“How am I looking at you? This is just my face.”

“Finn.”

Laurie coughed into his hands. His brother and cousin were always like this. Always circling each other -- nipping at each other’s heels, always more concerned with impressing each other than... Well, most other things. It was deeply annoying.

(Especially for one who could usually command attention so easily as Laurie could.)

And so, instead of going on with his story -- about a fellow lieutenant who was always banging on about the mythology of England -- whatever that meant, for he always went green whenever anyone mentioned the Celts -- and switched to a more pertinent topic.

“Have you told him about your reassignment?” He asked, just to put an end to the playful bickering.

Finn froze, all animation lost.

Russell winced. Poorly done, little brother!

“Oh, I suppose not then.”

Time to leave.

And yes, Laurie might be an poet, but even the vaguest, most self-absorbed poets have the sense to to run from a ticking time-bomb that was about to blow. (Laurie always did have a strong streak of self-preservation. All of his brothers did. Well, most of his brothers did.)

+

Horner too took his leave soon after, it was his turn for the watch. He yawned gustily, and with considerable satisfaction. The guns from the enemy-line had been practically silent the whole night. That made it a rare night indeed. He saluted smartly as he left, but before noting that the two officers stood for even less ceremony than usual.

“Good luck, Sergeant.” They said together, which was always unsettling.

“Er, thank you, sirs.” Horner hurried out.

Finn was first to speak, because he insisted on being first in everything. “I hope you were planning to tell me sometime before you left.”

Russell sighed and moved closer to Finn, who was asking urgently, “Oh Russ, it’s your father, isn’t it?”

“...Yes.”

“He’s found a way to get you back then.”

“It’s not like that.”

“No, it never is, with you. But it’s this --” Finn’s hands clenched. “You have to be the good son. Nothing else can ever compete.”

They were close enough to touch, and Finn did, because he always dared first, and Russell let him do it, because that was one of the terms of what they had. Quietly, regretfully, Finn said, “You’ll never be your own man this way, my good man.”

Russell’s mouth was dry, but he leaned down, and said, “And you are so much better.”

Finn’s eyebrows quirked up. “My father is forever complaining that I am both spoiled and disobedient.”

Russell’s lips hovered closer to Finn’s ear. He whispered, “We do not all have the luxury of disobedience.”

Finn breathed, “No...”

His hands closed over Russell’s chest.

 

It was sometimes easiest to surrender.

+

“Ugh, get off.”

Russell woke to familiar weight on his chest. He pushed it away, and got a faceful of dirty hair and skin for his effort. “Finn, get off me, what are you trying to do?”

Unabashed, Finn shook his head. “I’m memorizing you.”

“Memorizing me.”
“Yes. Hair.”
“Unwashed. Stop pulling.”
“Skin.”
“Also unwashed.”
“Eyes.”
“Closed.”
“Nose.”
“Finn, please.”
“Mouth -- ouch!”

Laughing, Finn pulled away, “Fine, fine! I’m sure there’s nothing below your neck worth remembering anyway.”

“Is that so?”

In the dark, there was only a straggled gasp.

Russell said, only slightly out of breath, “I will have to make sure you remember everything about me.”

+

A year passed.

In that year, the war ground on, no end in sight. Finn, always a neglectful writer of letters, did write when he survived this battle and that skirmish. Russell’s letters were more regular, though they carefully avoided any mention of what he was doing and why. He wrote the letters half-suspecting that Finn never read their contents. After all, the letters from Finn, when they did come, made no mention of anything he had said in his previous letters. Not that it mattered. If Russell wanted to learn what Finn was up to, he could learn it easily enough. The papers were full of his exploits.

 

The valiant, the gallant, the hero.

Finn was always one for conspicuous heroics.

There was even a picture of him that accompanied the articles. Someone had taken the trouble of making him look presentable. They had thought to take away his pocket-watches and other bits of gold, and had even given him a new uniform. His head was uncovered, the wind pulled his dark hair into odd shapes. He stood a little awkwardly, hands stuffed into his pockets. His face was blurred -- he never stood still enough to make for a good photograph -- and but his expression was clear enough.

His eyes were alight, and his mouth wide, a silent shout of laughter.

Russell clipped out the photograph, and kept it with him.

+

Finn met Laurie again, of all places, on a street-corner in London. He had elected to run out to get last minute gifts for Edith, although as the only grandchild in the family, she was already well set up for Christmas. Does she need another doll? He looked at his own bag of purchases a little dubiously.

He did not hear his name at first, though it was shouted, from across the street. “Finn! Finn!” cried out Laurie, hurrying over to him. He was followed by scowling young man, yet another cousin. Mortimer, his uncle’s fourth son -- or was he his fifth? -- who looked generally appalled by the idea of stopping in the street to talk to anyone like his half-cousin. Finn beamed at him especially.

He was probably too old to be given a lolly to. Which was very well, Edith and he would no doubt consume them all.

“How are you, Laurie? Mort?”

Laurie said, each word a plaintive note, “Not well, I’m afraid...”

Mortimer scowled. “Our father is dead.”

“Oh! I am sorry. How did he die?”

Mortimer, outraged, said, “It’s a secret!”

Laurie hushed him and said, tiredly, “No one really knows. There was an explosion. There wasn’t enough of a body to figure it out.”

“If grandfather was alive now, his heart would surely break,” said Finn automatically. He tilted his head, trying to puzzle out why Laurie should be telling him this. His father would be shocked, of course, if he did not know already. Having spent a lifetime building yourself up to be against something -- some person -- what can you do when the obstacle is removed? What will father do now, I wonder. He’ll have no one to rail against now. No one to compare himself to. No one to hate. (Or love, secretly, in his heart-of-hearts.)

“How is Russell taking this? He has not written to me for almost three months now.” Not that I mind. Much.

Laurie looked stricken and even Mortimer looked down. Laurie said slowly, “I’m afraid we don’t know where he is.”

Mort said quickly, “He’s missing in action. Which means that he’s as good as dead.”

Finn, who had been fidgeting up until that moment, stood absolutely still. “I see.”

He did.

 

+

Once, he was deathly afraid that he would give up some precious bit of information, something that would betray them all, and take them all down to where he was. But his captors were not so much interested in his secrets as they were in his pain, and even that grew stale.

After every new way was introduced to bend, twist, break his body, he wondered, when his mind was clear enough, why he did not die. But dying too was a privilege denied to him.

There was nothing but pain. There was no reality outside of it.

One day they came in and said, "Come, quit this stuffy cell. From now on you shall have a breezy place to perch!"

He said, in a voice cracked with disuse, “Well.”

His breath whistled out of his uncertain lungs. “I’ve got nothing else to do.”

+

It was impossible, of course. No one would believe it.

The winter whipped at and around them, the cliff-face was bare and blood-soaked.

Russell kept babbling in his ear, “You idiot, you fucking idiot, why did you come, why didn’t you kill me when I asked, oh you fool, now you’ve killed us both.” Finn wondered if it would be just too insensitive to gag him now. Russell was bleeding out alarmingly quick, his severed right hand being the main source of trouble. The tourniquet he had made seemed woefully inadequate now.

Russell was still talking. How could he still have the strength? “Finn, listen to me. We are in the middle of enemy territory. They’ve heard us by now, they’ll be coming. If you go now, I could hold them off before... You’re not listening to me.”

“I am listening.”

“Finn, for god’s sake, for once in your sorry life, think a little. Don’t die. Don’t die for me.”

Finn pressed his forehead against Russell’s. He was panting, his breath puffed in the icy air . “I’ll see you safe before I die, I promise.”

“You can’t...” The words dwindled into a sob.

Finn stilled, his whole frame tensing. Overhead, Russell could hear the droning of a plane, coming in close. They’ve found us, he thought in panic.

“The Eagle!” Finn shouted.

What was he talking about?

“We jump! Now!”

“Finn!”

 

+

He woke up to a white hospital room. The doctor, a grey haired man with spectacles, seemed confused by his sudden babble of German. He checked Russell’s chart before calling for the nurse.

He felt a sudden light-headedness, and lifted his right hand to his temple. But he stopped short, and stared at his right hand. There was nothing there but a neatly bandaged stump at his wrist.

It was difficult to remember what happened after that.

+

He found himself staring at Finn, who, in turn, was staring at him. Finn leaned close, and by instinct Russell leaned closer. Finn began, as he always did. “I am sorry about the hand.” His hands twisted and clenched in his lap. He was methodically destroying his cap.

Russell wheezed. He was trying to laugh. “What? Don’t be.”

Something wavered in Finn’s expression. He doesn’t believe me, Russell thought with a start. He thinks I am lying to spare his feelings.

He tried to explain. “What you did...” He couldn’t speak, Finn reached out, but he pulled away. He must speak. “What you did was extraordinary. No one else would have done it. Not for me, nor for anyone.”

Finn shook his head firmly. “You would have done the same for me.” And he said it with so much confidence that it made Russell’s stomach drop.

There was sound of clicking heels on a tile floor. Finn sprang up. Hurriedly, he said, “Don’t tell the nurses I’ve been here. I’ve been banned from this floor.”

His voice was too dry, and it comes out more a whisper than anything else. “I won’t.” And, feeling pathetic, “Will you come back?”

Finn darted back and reached out for a quick kiss on Russell’s cheek. “Never doubt it.”

+

He tried not to doubt. How could he? Surely... He should be certain of some things, at least. He knew that doubt had a habit of creeping in, unwanted and unlooked-for, in the dark nights, when he was alone except for the regular night noises of the hospital. Compared to the losses suffered by the other men, his own was not so terrible. He could still move -- or would, soon enough. He could see. His mind was troubled, but clear.

He was lucky. Everyone said so.

He knew all of these things.

It did not help.

If he could see himself now -- lank hair, the color of straw, aching joints, a nose, broken and then oddly set. A thin, scarred body. Flat grey eyes. He did not think that he had been vain, before. But. Beautiful, his parents had called him, when he was born. Beautiful, he felt, once. He’d held on to it casually, like a bauble, something of little worth. But now that it was gone...

Finn was gone again, leaving as quickly as he had come. “I owe father something, he has made sure I wasn’t to be court-martialed--” He gave a helpless shrug, and Russell wondered how serious he was being. It was sometimes difficult to tell. Of course, his uncle, presented with this sterling opportunity to reel back his wayward son-and-heir, would take it.

“I know, I know, I do not want to be a burden--”

“Do not say such things!” And there was more than a hint of anger in his tone.

Russell cocked his head. “Finn...”

Finn shook his head. Not listening. Brows furrowed, he bit his lips, perplexed. He did not change, Russell thought. Whatever happens, he remains the same. Constant.

“Finn...” Russell tried again, and reached out -- and his right arm dropped, but Finn took it anyway. They stared at each for a moment.

“Russell, my love, listen to me. You will recover. You will go back to England, you will take control of your father’s house, and you shall do what you want to do. No one will stop you. And when the war is over, I shall come to you, and we will be together.”

Russell closed his eyes. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because I have seen it. Because I love you. Because that is how it will be.”

“Faulty logic.”

Finn smiled, shook his head. “No.”

Russell opened his eyes and shot Finn a look. “All will go as you say? Because you command it to be so?”

“Yes. I command it.”

He pulled Finn to him, eyes aglow. He grew beautiful for him.

 

+

The news did not come immediately. Months passed. Seasons changed. The war ended.

Well, he did not hear of it, cocooned as he was in the windy old place in the north that was his father’s house. He had let his younger brothers have a run of the London place, and the news came slow, and most of it had to do with the on-going lawsuit with Elwin Thingol’s people. Their coffers were not quite bare, to say the least, but the theft of their father’s most secret invention had impoverished them considerably.

And of course, the brothers had sworn to get the damned things back, but always and maddeningly, they stayed always out of reach. Devilish things, to be sure. Russell could remember only a time in his most distant childhood when his father had not been completely consumed by his own work. His little brothers had never known such a time.

But still, a promise was a promise, and an oath was even stronger.

He would soon have to come down to London himself, to set things straight. It would be a battle, of the most unpleasant kind.

Meanwhile, Laurie and he had devoted many days to making the house, abandoned for years, habitable again. It was an isolated place, hidden from the world in a way that had best suited their parents’ artistic temperaments. Laurie joked that it was like living on the surface of the moon. And when the gray mist washed over the dark hills and hid the moor below, all against the bruising skies, Russell could not disagree.

The post, when it came at all, was slow, having made the long, laborious journey across the moors and then up high, to the old house half-way up the mountain.

When he came across the letter, it rested on the solid wood table that served as their dinner table, most days. It was already evening-time, past dinner. Laurie had retreated back to his study, for a night of undisturbed composing, and Russell was quite alone. In a crabbed, touchy handwriting that belonged to Terrence, Finn’s younger brother, the letter addressed to himself. The contents were brief, only a paragraph long.

Finn was dead.

He had died only a short time before the war ended. He had done something foolish -- something brave -- had been surrounded -- and his luck had finally run out. There was no body. Or, rather, there was too much of it, scattered as it was, across the French countryside. They had recovered a pocket-watch, and with no assurance it had belonged to Finn, had sent it along home to his mother.

 

That is it. The blow has fallen. I will surely die now.

 

But he did not fall ‘til long, long after.

---

Chapter End Notes

I am so sorry for spamming the archive! It's over now, you can rest easy.