Don't Fear The Reaper

Hold Your Tongue

Bitter.

The wretched gummy lining of your stomach curled against itself as your stomach felt like the winds hand had its clawed and gluttonous claws wrapped around your intestinal tract and pushing your heart into your throat, choking you.

The cold winds of the north slanted into your spine rigid. Titanium.
Broadened shoulders wracked with a stiffened weight, it didn't make it any better as your boots thumped against the chopper ramp and down, onto crackled and smoothened dry turmac..

You sucked in a heavy-greedy breath.
The coldness of the fall weather blanched heavy in your lungs like dust - not stardust of forgotten dreams left to rot in temples of left behind youths - bitter dust.

Dust that sits upon rations and crates in humvees and base walls that meticulously would be your home.
Like every other base you've been bounced to and from during your training for SAS..

From the arrival at Brecon Beacons in Wales.

To the Pen y Fan, in an infamous challenge known as 'Fan Dance'. The fourth and final week, known as Test Week, culminates in a 40-mile trek dubbed The Long Drag...

Long Drag indeed.
Much like the time it seems to take for a man to approach.
You know him. That's what you tell yourself.

Bucket hat tested upon a crowned head and a mustache and beard, planted upon rocked jawline and a nose that looks to be broken so many  times.
You digressed.

Price.
Captain Price.
His introduction falls on defended ears, rasped against the bitter ringing in your ears, "Good to see a familiar face Y/n," welcomed by blanketed words that left your mouth.

"Same to you Capt'n."

Friendly..
Hold your tongue.

He gave a dis-communal grunt. Humming and flashed a small smirk at your small but rigid jab. You don't know him. But he seems to think he knows a mighty lot about you - Fatherly.
An energy you're at ease more so than others it seems right now..

You don't mind it, you're weary of it- but don't mind it.
Like someone is weary of an open window at night, weary of rain, weary of-

You cut your mind off as you and Price walked and talked, ludicrous jabs and small talks about life..

Bowed posture, loaded brow – exhaustion slowly inches up on you. You hadn’t noticed your arid state, sandpaper eyes, stooping lower with every blink. You foolishly wonder if he did, though; if someone  reads you like you do them..
Would they know you trace your palm when you’re tired, marking the creases an old fortune teller read long ago?

Your lifeline is vague, hun, so too is the sun. But would you look at that, oh! Your mother should be so proud – as thick and long as a tree root, that’s your heart line, right there? Oh that line right there near your pinkie holds your memories dear-
Sweet boy.

Your mother would care less.

Aiding a small business talk of playing a ball-gamed dribble of catch-up as you muzzle your silver tongue to force yourself to show your teeth, to chuckle- one that came out smoother. More real then you'd think it would.
Calmer.
Safer.

More at ease..

Until the breaks were halted when you spotted a frame..

Everything your mother had ever drilled onto your nimble bones of youth and splintered into a tree of sharpened grass into life...like the snakes that you would always seen going in and out of your neighbors home..

'Staring is rude.'

'Don't stare. It's rude.'
'Stop staring Y/N, it's improper. I raised you better to know better.'