Shades of Failure || Armed Forces Recruiting Office, West Yorkshire
The unfortunate events of Meera Reed.
For Answer the Call, an ASoIaF WWI AU Roleplay
The more the room emptied, the more people appeared. They seemed to come out of the walls, sneak through holes in the carpet, materialize from every simple blow of smoke. Dozens and dozens of men, crowded together beneath the winds of expectation. And all had their faces focused on her. At least, that was the impression. Even there, shrunken, cloaked in a thousand jackets and head covered by a monstrous captainâs hat, it was as if her bare presence shouted: âOUTSIDERâ.
âNextâ, called the officer, and she was forced to step forward. âName?â
âRutherford, Albertâ. The voice would betray her, she knew it. Even after training over and over and over, thickening the throat and learning how to tone it down without anyone noticing, still had the vocal folds of a frightened teenager. A short period of silence. She could feel the Generalâs eyes assessing her. He knows. But how could he? If Meera ever had any trace of femininity in the body, it had long ago been extinguished. Short of stature, alarmingly scraggy, with slender legs and tiny breasts, invisible under the leather padding of clothes.
âYou shall treat your superiors by âsirââ, he corrected without any sign of change, âAge?â
âNinet- Er⊠Nineteenâ, and quickly added, ââŠSir.â
The word came up with an awfully strong accent. She loathed it. Represented the ultimate proof of her flutter. You donât. Have time. For this.
Meera raised her eyes high enough to face the manâs knee. On the table, his hands moved roughly while writing. The rhythmic beats of one foot showed a nervous tic, and therefore, possible stress problems. Perhaps he caught that in battle. Wasnât entirely impossible. Her father constantly reminded how wars could traumatize and leave sequelae for the rest of oneâs life. He himself had a few. Never, for example, left them heat the coal without having at least five visible vents in the kitchen. And he also used to shiver every time Jojen decided to play with the old military drum.
Painful memories. Stop torturing yourself.
âI must ask you remove your cap,â said the official, and Meera felt a chill. Shit. The cap. âI c-canât, sir.â, murmured, âI- I âave ⊠Burns. T-terrib' burns, sir. Y-ye wouldnât wan' to lookâ.
The General shrugged. âIâve seen terrible things. And you will as well, if you really plan on joining us. Now:Â Remove. The. Cap."
Meera stepped back, searching for a way out. What to do? What to do? What to do?
Had no time to think. One of the soldiers assured this when, in a slight movement, approached her and slapped the front of the hat, making it fly away and causing the long braid, once tied up and so carefully hidden, to fall messy onto her back. Two present maids sighed in amazement. The old fatty grumbled, and the new recruits muffled scornful laughters. But the officer didnât seem surprised. When she could first see his face, it showed nothing but indifference.
âI fear we have a problem, Ms. Rutherford. If this is really your name.â, and continued to write. âNext.â
It took some seconds for her to realize what had happened. Meera looked around for help, but all she found were masses and masses of unknown creatures. âWhat do you mean by ânextâ? Yâhave to let me enlist!â
He looked up. âStill here, girl? Go away, I have work to do â
âGiv' me a shotâ, she leaned with both hands on the table, breath beggining to accelerate, âIâve training. I know the letters, th' arithmetic, and the weaponry.â
Men cackled openly now. âYou?â. Even the General gave up a smile, âNot only tattered, but also a liar. What use would the army have for a child?â, And turned to the guards, frowning tediously. âTake her out of my sight. Soon theyâll think we're here for a joke.â
Two men held her arms and pulled Meera out of the line, forcing her way to the door. The more she struggled, the stronger they tightened her. Iâll be bruised.But that was no reason to be worried about. She could easily count all scars she already had in the tip of her fingers, once she used both hands⊠and the toes. What difference would it be some more injuries? One false step, and the man on her right lowered his arms, completely dropping the guard of his face. They must think Iâm really harmless, she thought indignantly, during the frenzy that unwittingly made ââher elbow protrude toward the soldierâs nose.
I amnât a child, old man.
She heard a snap when the cartilage broke. Staggering, he released one hand, and after giving him a kick in the abs, Meera was set free to focus on the soldier on the left. It was not enough. A turn with his fist, and he struck her fully on the ear. Without thinking, and feeling the metal taste in the tongue, she ran back for the bench, where for the first glorious time, recognized a familiar face. Long countenance, dark hair â somewhat grizzled, but well-cut â, the impassive features of Winter Hall.Â
Had never seen him in person, but the pictures on her fatherâs walls did not lie.
âMajor!â, she called, bypassing from the way. âMajor Stark!â, and threw herself at the spot in front of where he sat. âYâknow my father, sir, his name's- AAAARRGH!!â. Another recruit â or would it be the same? â held her from the back, turning the wrist in what could be just a weak pinch, but it made no difference for her lightweight bones. âReed!â, Meera managed to yell as he lifted her, âHowland Reed! Ye served together in the Jo- LET ME GO, YA BAS!!⊠In the Joyâs Tower Mission! â
She saw a short glimpse of understanding in the Majorâs gray eyes, but was soon replaced by the usual military coldness. Wriggled again. For a moment, all Meera wanted was to be as a snake. Thin and green and tenacious. Poisonous. Deadly. This soldier was much larger than the others, and certainly now he knew what she was able to if released.
She was thrown to the street without the slightest ceremony. The giant recruit gave her a last look of disgust, and to only increase her feeling of inferiority, slammed the door for the whole city to hear.
As if aware to her disgrace, Mother Nature decided to further improve the situation. It started to thunder.Â
Great. Bloody great. She stood up, wiped the blood from the corner of the lip and accommodated more inside the warm clothes, protecting the head from rain with a makeshift hood. Had lost the cap. Stupid, stupid, stupid. How could you think no one would see? And if you had entered, idiot? Do you think they would spare you when they found out? Do you think anyone would care to protect you with a battle going on?
They wouldnât need to. Meera could take care of herself. She had come this far, had she not? Of course. Sleeping under empty buildings. Eating leftovers. Stealing pennies. Taking rides with strangers. Needing to threaten two of them. And has it worked? Almost. An âAlmostâ is a âNoâ, only covered with excuses to attenuate the taste of defeat. You are useless, Meera. Now get over it.
Everyone knew it. Her mother knew it. Jojen knew it. Why else would they have left her? You caused it. It is all your fault. If only she was stronger. Cleverer. Bolder. Perhaps the village wouldnât have fallen. If only she'd defended them. If only she could lead.
Stupid, stupid, bloody stupid.
Father would know what to do. He always did. Howland would penetrate the forest with nothing but a shotgun in hand, and bring back a feast. He would colect herbs and turn them into medicine. And war veterans still had some renown among the common people. They could find a lodge, perhaps a pension, and banks would offer discounts to lend money . He wouldnât allow her to steal â He was too polite for that. Reckless, he would say, Dangerously reckless, Meera.
And so he would shake his head in disapproval, bite the inside of his cheek in annoyance, scold her for cursing and tell some old war fable.
She missed him so much. So bloody much.
The corner of her eyes were attracted by the view of a building. Tall, imponent, ingrained on the steps of this city square. The wooden Cross was made in a gothic Middle-Age style, following the shape of the windows and the carving on the gate, so uneasily bloodcurdling it made the palms of her hands itch. Even though children were brought up in the Bible's stardarts back home, the whole of Greywater knew it was nothing but mere formality -- AÂ word which here means, in the lack of a better term, and attenuating the true context behind it, "bullshit" -- to please the government.Â
The Reeds carried a legacy on their name, thatâs what Meera had always been told. A legacy from those who knew the land before it was even born. From those who created the land, those who raised it, shaped it and nursed it as a mother to her son. It was the blood that ran in her veins, as much as it did in her fatherâs.
The blood of the Celts. The ancient blood. The ancient wisdom. Before the Saxons. Before the Christians. Before the modern men.
Meera had now this same blood inside her mouth and stained all over her undergarment. Warm, boiling from behind her eyes and her chest, still as ancient and mythical as could be. And yet it didnât make her feel in any ways wiser. Where are the magnificent Celtic gods when you need them the most? Hiding in their magnificent Celtic palace? Feasting their magnificent Celtic ambrosia?
The gods couldnât help now. Not more than Howland, or Jojen. Not more than any other fairytale she had heard back home. Not more than the so-called gift that fever had given to her brother.
Gift. Meera almost laughed to the irony. It was a curse. She still remembered the night Jojen had come to her room, shaking and sweating, speaking follies about a sight. She, of course, had listened to every word, still faithful to the beliefs her folk shared. It was about a war, a war that should be beared in peopleâs minds centuries and centuries after. The uprising of empires, the scars that would mark the world forever. He talked, mostly, that they should be ready. Prepare for battle, he had whispered, For this will be our time.
Follies. Follies. Follies. Why would gods say that? Why bothering with plain international conflicts when they could warn him about his fate? The Germans came two days after, and where were the gods, then?
As she walked out the townâs road, reached into the jacket pocket. Old buttons, a rope, paper and ink. A lighter, bullets, a pocket knife⊠and bread. At least that trip had served for something. It was stiff, old, burned in the bottom. But it was food. She took one piece from the end and started chewing. Wasnât as bad as it looked. Easy to keep. Easy to swallow.  If well-rationed, could last untill the end of the week.
Eyed the lampposts that followed the path, counting steps. One. Two. Three. Four. She turned left into the middle of bushes. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Breathe. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Skip that stone. Move that branch. Get down on that slope. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Her trousers got trapped in the thorns. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. And Meera saw the hut that covered her shelter.
She had dug a little, gathered stones and placed a tarp on the ground. An oil lamp illuminated the side, and a wooden square protected it from both rain and wind. She lifted the cloth and found it empty, just the way she left.
It felt odd, being there, all alone. Meera loved the outdoors as other ladies could love their own bedroom â some would say even more. In other times, she was used to camp around the boundaries of Greywater. She, Jojen, and father, all three of them. They went to the farrest edge of the moss, where the lizards and the biggest fish lived. They built wigwams out of mesh, roasted frogs, played catch in the mud â most for the housemaidâs horror â, layed on the soaked ground and counted stars.
Didnât seem normal to do it on her own. Didnât seem right.
Meera sat by the lampion, covering the sleeping bag around her. A backpack was thrown on her side, filled with some clothes, a Colt Army 1860 and Jojenâs old favorite books â the ones she had been able to save.
Loved to read, Jojen. When very little, used to joke that they had actually been a single person in another life, and now, for any occurrence, were born separated. He was the brains, she was the muscles. He was the bones, she was the heart. They were even similar in appearance â same pale-white complexion, same curious moss-green eyes, same brown hair, same small ears.
But now heâs gone. The other half has been lost. It was the fact that ached the most, that she wasnât able to protect him. Among all Meeraâs responsibilities, Jojen was the main and most important, the only one she was ever truly commited to. And yet you let him slip through your fingers. It would always be her shame. Her shadow. Her ghost. Her doom. My brother. My angel. My only family. Tears fell across her cheek. It happened less often by now.
Meera curled like a pup, embracing one of the books. She liked the smell of it. Of moisture, wood and Jojen. Home. Ears down, tail between legs, hand placed over the face to repress the oncoming moans. Crying wouldnât help now. Nor it would make the sorrow fade away.Â
jimmyeatworldofficial
romaincrisis
areudirty
