This Soil ⌖ n.h. [slow updates]

chapter six

Many of Niall's fellow soldiers moaned and groaned due to the back-breaking work of trench maintenance. The sandbags had to be refilled, the duckboards repaired, latrines dug, and water pumped out where it had gathered in the bottom from too-copious amounts of rain. However, Niall reveled in the experience. After the daily chores were finished, the sun was well up into the sky, and the men were restrained from any extraneous movement, as the enemy trenches were much too close for comfort. And so ensued the daily boredom.

To Niall, this was the worst part of the day. Before he was transferred to the front lines, he didn't mind it. Down time was just that: an opportunity to relax. To chat quietly with William, to take a nap, to shine his boots, and to write and read letters back home. A calm in the storm. However, ever since he had entered the war zone for the first time, the real war zone, daily down time was torture.

William and he seemed to struggle with making conversation more than they had before. Sleep was overtaken with horrible nightmares full of the scent of metal, the taste of grit, and horrifying screams. There didn't seems to be any point in shining his boots, and the letters from home hardly made up for the horrors of here. Grueling work was a welcome distraction from a prison-like state of mind.

William, however, did not seem to concur, this evident as he grumbled, "How is this not killing you?" Niall glanced over to watch William irritatedly wipe sweat off of his brow and out of his eyes while he supported his weight on the shovel. He then placed his right hand back onto the handle of the shovel and jammed it into the ground. He cried out in pain, stumbling back and looking down at his palms. He'd split open all of his blisters, and his hands were now bleeding and raw. Niall quickly retrieved his knife from where he kept it strapped to his calf and cut away at the bottom of his shirt. He then motioned for William to offer his injured hands. William complied, and Niall bound them firmly in the cloth. "Thank you," William offered gratefully, opening and closing his hands in experimentation.

"Of course," Niall replied, returning to his work.

"Are you used to this sort of thing?" William asked exasperatedly, awkwardly attempting to continue digging without causing himself further anguish.

"Do you mean hard work?" Niall countered in amusement.

"Alright, alright," William conceded. "We have well established that I came from comfortable circumstances. Har-har. My question still stands."

Niall lost his joking mannerisms; they were a considerable portion forced, at any rate. He shrugged as he continued to work. "I worked for the railroad for quite a long time. You get strong, that way. Builds up calluses on your hands as well. "

"When did you start working?" William inquired as he too returned to his labor, eyeing Niall carefully as he did so.

"Ten," he answered, not deviating from the task at hand in the slightest.

"You were young," William commented.

"Many are," Niall replied.

William, taking a breath and smiling in an attempt to brighten things, said, "Well, I'm sure your parents appreciated it."

Niall clenched and unclenched his jaw, stopping in his digging only for a few seconds. As his infinitesimal break came to a close, he reported in a low, gruff voice, "My parents were dead."

William froze, his head snapping in Niall's direction, and his eyes boring into the side of Niall's face. "Pardon?" he lamented softly. Niall swallowed as he continued to dig, not responding to William's request. William leaned forward, his gaze intent as he implored of his friend, "Niall. Niall, look at me."