Shackles of war

 
"Hello everyone,

In ancient times, a war between Britain and Denmark ended with a devastating loss, opening the doors to a love that was and still is detested. The prisoners of war are the most burdened; the captive Jeon Jungkook will be forced to be transferred to the hospital instead of the filthy dungeons. He will be treated better, even though he is a soldier of the enemy state, and under the care of the Danish medic, Kim Taehyung.

Jeon Jungkook: British Marshal.
Kim Taehyung: Danish medic.
Note: Marshal is the highest rank in the armies, the highest and most prestigious rank in the military, and is only given to the commander-in-chief of the armed forces."





"Roskilde - Denmark - 1945

5 PM

In the heart of Roskilde, Denmark, the white flag was raised, signaling the surrender of Great Britain. The lands were strewn with corpses, the scenery stained with blood, and the scent of gunpowder filled the air. A chilling cold gripped the men.

Denmark's horns blared their victory anthem, amidst a sky that had lost its whiteness to the black smoke of artillery fire. The cries of the populace echoed from both nations, the screams of children and the unending moans of soldiers. In a time stripped of humanity, the lust for victory and dominance reigned.

A body collapsed among the dead, its pallid skin and bloodless lips bearing witness to its loss. Its once-black hair was now crimson, and its milk-white skin, defiled and wounded, was stained with the ash of war.

Unfortunately, a handful of patrolling soldiers spotted the insignia the earth had failed to conceal: the flag of his nation and the marks of his military rank, revealing him to be a British Marshal, his three stars still gleaming.

They hauled him away in a barbaric manner, these three Danish soldiers, their second prize of victory, the unconscious Marshal Jeon Jungkook. They wasted no time, carrying him swiftly to deliver him to the General of the Danish Armed Forces, knowing they could claim a hefty reward for this Marshal. Their faces were etched with the harshness of war, and their hearts beat with the thrill of fortune, the luck that led them to him and their victory.

Night fell swiftly, bitterly cold and eerily quiet, save for the soldiers' encampment, where a celebration roared. They laughed and drank, and every half-hour, an officer would arrive to congratulate them on their grand victory. Indeed, it was a grand feat, a triumph over Britain, an achievement beyond price.

Others rushed home to celebrate with their families, or to sleep in their mothers' arms, or to play with their siblings. Many simply succumbed to exhaustion.

Asvelom Military Hospital
'Calling Doctor Lewisvik... calling Doctor Lewisvik!'

The call echoed through the hospital's loudspeakers, startling Taehyung, who had been dozing in a vacant patient room.

In the corridor, Doctor Lewisvik raced towards the source of the urgent summons from the special forces. Upon arrival, his face registered astonishment at the sight of the body carried by three men."



"Let me warn you with all the caution my tongue can utter! This wretch must be saved, his body must be revived, for he is far more important than you. Should he die, I cannot guarantee your life, nor can I restrain myself from sending your soul soaring into the skies of Roskilde." The general, known for his fierce temper, spoke with a growling, threatening tone.

"Yes, sir, I shall do my utmost." He bowed swiftly to his superior, his heart pounding with fear at the piercing gaze.

"Nay, you shall exert your full effort upon him, your entire effort, you hear?" The general, Mark Davlin, reiterated with the same menacing tone that subdued all without exception.

"Yes, of course, sir." He promptly ordered the men to take the injured body to the nearest room in the corridor. Or rather, a ward, separated by fabric curtains.

"Here, yes, place him here." The doctor pointed to an iron bed with a thick cotton pad and sterile white sheets. They quickly laid him down, their shoulders finally relieved, in the small room.

"Taehyung, my boy, we must begin disinfecting and dressing the wounds immediately." The men had already departed during this exchange.

"Very well, sir, at once." Taehyung replied with eloquence and politeness that commanded respect.

The doctor left without explaining why, but Taehyung paid little heed and began his work, undisturbed in his solitude.

Taehyung's POV

I sterilised my hands and brushed back my honey-coloured hair, the same shade as my eyes. I removed his upper garment and took a cold, sterile cloth, gently wiping his neck and then his face. I cleaned his eyes, his cheeks, and his lips with extreme care. He was still, save for the faint breaths escaping his lips. His lips were parched, and dried blood mingled with dust clung to them.

I gently pushed the soldier's hair away from his forehead and wiped it clean."
 
"With a gentle touch, I continued to wipe him clean until his body was free of the soldiers' blood and his own. I pondered, perhaps he had killed a father, leaving his children orphans, or slain a lover, shattering his beloved. Many thoughts assailed my mind, yet I was convinced he was not to blame, nor were others. It was the fault of the commanding officers, the domineering leaders. It was the fault of war!

I removed the bullet from his shoulder; it hadn't penetrated deeply, but the pain was profound. I wrapped gauze around the wound and finally dressed him in the standard uniform of Asvelom Military Hospital patients.

I cleaned the area thoroughly and stepped forward, intending to give him some water, as his body was frail from blood loss on the battlefield. But then I noticed something truly beautiful and captivating... a mole beneath his lips. It drew me in with an undeniable force.

I extended my index finger and placed it upon that mole. For the first time, he opened his eyes and stared into mine with an unnerving intensity, stirring fear within my heart. In those black orbs, I saw the cruelty of war and the sorrow of defeat. They held a remarkable resilience, yet I couldn't bring myself to withdraw my finger, and my pulse quickened beneath his intense gaze."




"We exchanged glances for a brief moment. His eyes were incredibly dull, his breaths laboured. Finally, he struggled to speak, attempting to tell me something. Before he could utter a word, I abruptly withdrew my finger from his mole, flustered. He paid no heed, as if still unconscious.

He parted his parched lips and whispered, 'Water.' I quickly set down the cup in my other hand and placed it on the small table beside the bed. I raised his body to a sitting position, leaning him back, all with gentle care, as his shoulder was still injured. I brought the cup to his lips, and he drank deeply and rapidly, the water spilling from his mouth onto his chin, clothes, and sheets.

After draining the cup, he relaxed, his head falling back onto the pillow in exhaustion. Moments later, he whispered again, 'Water.' I had no more. He had consumed an entire cup, and in this hospital, food and water were rationed. I couldn't give him another. So, I offered him my own. He drank it all, then rasped, 'More.' But there was none left.

Besides, drinking so much water immediately after a deep coma, which had lasted from noon until late at night, was dangerous. So, I whispered, 'No, it’s not good for you. I’ll fetch you some broth quickly. Don’t sleep, or even close your eyes…!' He remained silent, unresponsive. I hurried out, knowing why he didn’t reply.

His body was numb, too weak to move. His once-strong, muscular frame lay dormant. I returned to find the ravages of war etched upon him, his ribs shivering in the cold, his eyes glazed with exhaustion. He hugged his arms to his chest, seeking warmth, but the Roskilde chill was merciless.

I retrieved a wool blanket from beneath the bed and draped it over him. Moments later, his body relaxed, and I heard a sigh of relief. I pulled my chair closer and sat, studying his face and skin. I began to gently caress his cheeks and dark hair, with an almost excessive tenderness.

I knew my touch had a soothing power, that it could subdue and calm even the most restless. I wondered how he would react if he were awake, and how soft his skin would feel after the harshness of the Danish war.

I stopped when I realised he had ignored me and fallen asleep again! Such a small thing shouldn't bother me, but I longed to finish and return home. I couldn’t bear to stay in the hospital any longer.

How could I feed him broth while he slept? I tried to rouse him, but he didn’t respond. For a moment, I feared he had slipped back into a coma. My thoughts were interrupted when Lewisvik entered, informing me that he had indeed relapsed after drinking the water.

Frankly, this was preferable. I didn’t want to work anymore and was about to leave, but I paused. I was full of words, so what harm could there be in talking to someone unconscious? None.

So, I spoke to him, saying, ‘Since you’re unconscious, soldier, I’ll confide in you. No one else can hear me.

Do you hear the loud laughter and music? They’re celebrating victory. But isn’t it shameful? They celebrate while their land is littered with corpses and blood! They drink, dance, and laugh, while many citizens weep in silence! Shouldn’t they have waited at least a week? Damn it.’

All day, I’ve thought about the citizens and the dead, some of whom might be my friends. But I know that’s not what truly burdens me. Ah, never mind.

Now, instead of rejoicing in my nation’s victory, I’m talking to its enemy, and I don’t regret it.”




..... The Next Chapter🎀💞