#wraysford

[evidenceof]

I've found that a lot of the times, it's objects and small gestures in the grand scheme of a fic that continue to haunt me long after I've read them. There's a list of foraged things and mannerisms that I hear clang around in my head at odd hours of the day. The ease and off-handed nature of the action and objects strike a cord of tenderness every time. Makes me wanna scream tbh. So I thought I'd share it with you (as a rehashed fic rec list of sorts).

A plastic pink acetate comb

An errant spot of shaving cream by the wrong man's ear

Choosing to sit beside instead of across as a habit

"I like holding you."

A red germanium: pressed or fresh

[puffingirl]

Clémence Poésy and Eddie Redmayne as Isabelle Azaire and Stephen Wraysford in the television adaptation of "Birdsong". 

[redmayne-pontmercy]

Ellis said nothing. He could not understand the relationship between the two men. The captain from the tunnel appeared to always be on the point of collapse while his own senior officer, Wraysford, seemed so calm that he was capable of being cruel to Weir, of saying anything without the other man protesting. Weir came shaking to the dugout for whisky and reassurance; he apparently depended on Wraysford’s coldness. Yet on occasions, late at night, Ellis had had the impression that there was another aspect to the men’s surly friendship. He looked down and saw Wraysford sunken eyes, black in the candlelight, and they were locked on to Weir as though he depended on him for some quality he lacked. It was almost, Ellis once thought, as if he really cared for him.

Birdsong

[redmayne-pontmercy]

Gray stood up and came round the desk. "Think of the words on that memorial, Wraysford. Think of those stinking towns and foul bloody villages whose names will be turned into some bogus glory by fat-arsed historians who have sat in London. We were there. As our punishment for God knows what, we were there, and our men died in each of those disgusting places. I hate their names. I hate the sound of them and the thought of them, which is why I will not bring myself to remind you. But listen." He put his face close to Stephen's. "There are four words they will chisel beneath them at the bottom. Four words that people will look at one day. When they read the other words they will want to vomit. When they read these, they will bow their heads, just a little. 'Final advance and pursuit.' Don't tell me you don't want to put your name to those words.

Birdsong

[quitetom]

This is not a war. It is an exploration of how far men can be degraded.

Stephen Wraysford on World War I, 'Birdsong' by Sebastian Faulks