「ARTHUR CAMNIEL "CAM" KERR LAMBTON 」
40 • SOCIETY • TAKEN BY GRAY
TRIGGER WARNINGS: Mentions of death, war, homophobia, and ableism
DIRECT FROM LE PETIT JOURNAL:
Once, the Viscount Lambton came to France to fight, to lead, to bleed for the liberty of Europe; now, we welcome him as a true hero of La Grande Guerre, bedecked in honours and the gallant scars of battle. Surely, with all those horrors behind us, he’ll be pleased to settle in and relish the splendour of Paris, more-than-restored to glory after the bombardments of the Boche. Bienvenue, Major-General! Keep those medals buffed and your most splendid war stories at the ready.
ABOUT:
Arthur Camniel Kerr Lambton, born a viscount, one day, an earl. In between now and then? Naturally, he’d join the army, be made an officer, serve honourably, then retire to the seat his father left behind, in Westminster. Oh, yes. Cam would make them so very, very proud. It would be easy, too. After all, he was meant for this. His governesses flourished praise, as did his riding and fencing masters: a clever boy, strong, tenacious. The social set adored him. Such a polite, refined child. Such a charming, driven young man. With such a sense of duty, chaining it all in place. Everything one could have hoped for, from an heir.
Of course, he was also supposed to be his brother’s keeper. Little Jack. It was no hardship, when they were children. Nice to have a playmate on that quiet estate. Perhaps Jack could be fanciful, but he’d grow out of it, surely. And… well, when they were out roaming, his brother’s ghostly legends and fairy tales simply became a part of the landscape. Hiking the North Pennines and the Durham coast, tarrying by the River Wear, Cam could leave all - or most, at least - of his many responsibilities behind, wandering through Jack’s fictions and the English countryside.
But it was childish, to keep illustrating those stories they’d shared as he was shipped off to boarding school; his classmates let him know so, quickly. That was nonsense, now. The sort he clearly didn’t have time for. Not with examinations coming up. And once he’d passed out first from Eton - with honours, of course - on to Sandhurst. From there, Cam was eager to join his colleagues on maneuvers, observing war games across the Empire, studying the future of their field. So very eager that he hardly had time to settle down and have heirs of his own. Not that there weren’t plenty of lovely girls, just lovely, hawking for his hand. He was too busy, that’s all. Until he wasn’t - by order of his mother. It was as simple as that. An order, given for his own good as much as the family’s.
So, as he was meant to be, Cam found himself well-married. And, obviously, content. Such a handsome couple. With a beautiful baby boy, so soon - an heir for the heir. But by the time his spare arrived, Cam had been in France for months, serving king and country. While his more modern tactics and youth rankled hidebound superiors, he quickly demonstrated his genuine talents for strategy and leadership. Not that he was any more popular with the rank and file. Even if they were quietly grateful to be serving under his direction, few tommies enjoyed his rather aristocratic company. Not that being loved was important, in such a time and place.
Mentioned in despatches and pushed up the ranks, Cam soon had an entire division to command - twelve thousand men, including, apparently, Jack. Again, after years of bristling back-and-forth estrangement, as his brother became ever more troublesome. Why did he have to be so bloody difficult? Why was he even there, anyway? Too feckless. Too clever for his own good. Too young, too breakable, too close. And so Jack was transferred, as far from the sharp end as Cam could get him without raising eyebrows. Jack could hate his big brother all he wanted, so long as he survived to do it.
He did. Mostly. The news was gutting; his baby brother, chewed apart by a German offensive, shipped home. And still, a war to win. So Cam soldiered on, more hollow by the day. Until he was headed back to Blighty himself, unseamed shins-to-ears by machine-gunfire during the Hundred Days. After years of war, he was going home - to a family that had to look after him, to children he hardly knew, to an honourable discharge he didn’t want. As soon as he could Cam was limping into the War Office, desperate for anything that could feel like a purpose, frantic to be more than the disappointment he was so dreadfully certain he’d become.
And so he was trotted out, their new poster boy: a general officer, wounded on the battlefield. A hero, they called him. Did it matter that he didn’t feel like one? That it ached, in all sorts of ways, to be sent around “inspiring” men who, far as he could see, had every reason to despise him? Of course not. Because he was meant for this, too. Wasn’t he? Just as he was meant to climb ever higher at the Office, to London. Then, to Paris, ready to serve the ambassador - and his family’s interests, his own, in preventing his brother’s most recent and disastrously shameful novel from ever emerging. God; he was meant to be great. How did it come to this?
CONNECTIONS:
The Hophead: Perhaps you don’t see things the same way - you’ve never been the artistic, dreamy sort, obviously - but when the guns of history won’t quit blazing, and the bright lights of Parisian high society start to burn, you’ve been known to step away and share a pipe. After all, misery loves a… friend?
The Savior: You led, and they followed, once upon a time; a time neither of you want to remember, that the world won’t let either of you forget. Part of you wants to reach out. The rest recoils, sure they’d blame you for the worst of the suffering you shared. Why wouldn’t they? You do.
The Sycophant: Their grasping ambition and frivolous excess sums up everything about this age that rings hollow, for you - everything that makes you wonder what so many died in the name of. Is that their fault? No. Still. You find them tiresome, at best. Too bad that doesn’t seem to discourage their attempts to worm into your good graces.
Faceclaim & Pronouns: Matthew Goode, he/him
The General is taken by Gray, they/them.