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Biggles fic from AU Fest #1: Heart in a Box
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auexchange author reveals are today, and in shocking, shocking results, I wrote Heart in a Box (most imaginative title of all time, I will be taking no complaints). I absolutely fell in love with the prompt as soon as I saw it, wrote this in JULY, and then quietly died inside as I had to wait FOREVER for reveals. Anyway, trying to keep up with crossposting my fic to DW more often, here it is. (I also wrote the tarantula bite one, which will also be crossposted shortly.)
Heart in a Box (3300 wds, gennish pre-relationship)
"He's a witch-soldier," Raymond said. "They have their hearts severed from their bodies so they can fight more effectively." Buries a Hatchet AU.
"Tell me this, frankly. Had you any other motive in coming to see me, apart from warning me of my danger?"
Biggles asked the question as neutrally as possible, but he could see, on Fritz's pale face, that there was indeed more.
However, he was unprepared for the answer, which came after a long pause.
"Yes," Fritz said. He reached into the inner breast pocket of his jacket, hesitated again, and then extracted a small object. "I wished for you to keep something safe for me."
He opened his hand.
Biggles heard a soft intake of breath from Algy, the only other person in the room who knew, as Biggles did, what that object was.
It was a small silver box, roughly the shape of a deck of cards but a little too small to contain one. It was a beautiful object, inscribed all over with the most delicate of etchings, trees and flowers and a stylized wolf on the lid.
Biggles had first seen it in Palestine, but he had not known what it was then—not until much later, after everything, when Raymond had taken him aside and spoken to him privately.
("According to our sources, Hauptmann von Stalhein is a witch-soldier," Raymond had said.
"I don't know what that means," Biggles had said, but his own heart was racing, a strange excitement filling him.
"It is a very old practice. I have not heard of one in modern times. They have their hearts severed from their bodies so they can fight more effectively. As long as their heart is undamaged, they feel nothing and they are very difficult to kill.")
Biggles was not at all sure he believed that von Stalhein "felt nothing," and certainly his sharp intellect had been unimpaired. But even though Biggles had suspected von Stalhein must have survived the smash-up in Palestine if his heart was kept elsewhere, it still had been a shock to, in some sense, meet him for the first time properly at the castle during the Cronfelt jewel affair—to meet all of him, to see him animated, smiling, and fully alive for the first time in Biggles's experience.
Now he saw the box in Fritz's hand, and it brought it all back, all of their long acquaintance, including the incandescent rage Biggles had felt when he had seen that same box peeping out of Zorotov's pocket in Jamaica.
Ginger and Bertie looked on, not understanding. Algy did understand; his face was shocked but reserved.
The box rested in Fritz's palm. Biggles made no move to reach out. "If you know what that is, how could you give such a thing to us, his enemies?" he asked, low and fierce.
Fritz was a little taken aback, but recovered his poise in a way that was stingingly reminiscent of his uncle. "I do not have anywhere else safe to put it," he returned just as quietly. "I fear that I have been followed from the Russian Zone in Berlin. I cannot risk this falling into their hands. If they do not know what it is, they may destroy it in error; if they do ..." He trailed off, unable to continue.
"He entrusted that to you before he left for Sakhalin," Biggles guessed, and Fritz gave a slight nod. "How, then, can you bring it to us, rather than keeping it safe as he asked you to?"
Fritz raised his intense blue eyes, which had been focused on the box, to Biggles's face. "Because from all he said about you, I do not think you would misuse it," he answered. "In fact, as he gave it to me, and then sent me to you, I think perhaps he meant it for you all along."
Biggles didn't answer. Then, slowly, he held out his hands, palms cupped together as if to receive something fragile, a baby bird or the shell of an egg. He did this without thinking, and Fritz, just as carefully, placed the box in Biggles's hands.
It was warm. That was the first startling thing. It was nearly as warm as a person's skin, even more so than it should have been for being carried in Fritz's pocket. And it was light. Biggles had not expected that. It hardly seemed to weigh anything in his hand. He also saw, for the first time, that the lid was made of one piece with the box. There was no way to open it.
"Does it contain—physically—" He was not sure how to ask the question without being indiscreet.
"No," Fritz said quickly. "No, I mean, whatever is inside here, it is not physically part of him. I think it is more of an—an essence, if that makes any sense. If you believe in souls, perhaps it is that."
Biggles continued to stare at the box. It was so light that he had a sudden intensely visceral awareness of its fragility. Merely to look at it, the box seemed nearly indestructible; Biggles had seen small metal objects of its approximate size survive intact through bombing raids and fires. But now that he held it, there was a sense of impossible delicacy to it, as if he could crush it with a careless movement.
Very carefully, he placed it, as Fritz had, inside the inner breast pocket of his jacket, trying not to think about the fact that he had put it over his own heart.
"I promise you nothing beyond this," he told Fritz, who for the first time looked hopeful. "We will talk again once you are more settled in lodgings here. May I walk you out?"
They walked together to the door, and Fritz said in a very quiet voice, pitched to avoid the others' hearing, "He's never been apart from it this long, or this far. I don't know what it will do to him. I'm not sure if you know, but it is painful for him to be separated from it, and the pain grows worse with time and distance."
"I didn't know that," Biggles said quietly.
"But after a while, he has said, the pain begins to fade, and with it his awareness of having one at all. I'm afraid if it is too long, he might not be able to—"
"Listen," Biggles interrupted, unable to take any more of this. "I told you, I cannot promise you help. For one thing, it's not in my hands; I will have to speak to my Chief, and I don't know what I'm going to tell him. Understand?"
"I do. But ..." Fritz looked at Biggles's chest, and when Biggles looked where Fritz was looking, he realized that—without noticing—he had brought up his hand to lightly cover the spot where the box containing von Stalhein's heart, or perhaps his soul, rested against Biggles's chest, too light to feel. Fritz went on, "I do not think it was a mistake to come here, or to give you that. I feel you'll take good care of it."
As if he felt he had said too much, he hurried out into the night without saying goodbye.
*
"They rifled that poor young lad's things, his attackers did," Gaskin told Biggles. "Turned out his pockets and tossed his room at the Brimsdale as well. Any idea what they were looking for?"
"I couldn't say for certain," Biggles said.
He was all too aware of the slight bulge in his inner pocket, a faint warmth that sometimes seemed to quiver in time with his heartbeat. He had intended at first to put in the safe in the Mount Street flat, where it should have been perfectly secure. But putting it anywhere apart from himself felt too precarious, and he began to understand, now, the burden that had been on Fritz, fleeing the East German territory with this in his possession. Biggles kept it in his pocket during the day, and at night, wrapped it carefully in a clean handkerchief and tucked it between his pillow and the wall, where it was never farther away than he could reach out to recover it in an instant.
There was no question that they should be off for Sakhalin as soon as Fritz was well enough to travel; Biggles felt they could use the lad's Russian fluency and general inside knowledge of the Soviet territory to succeed.
He did show the box to Air Commodore Raymond, the man who had first told him what it truly was. Those sharp eyes lit on seeing it nestled in Biggles's palm. Raymond started to reach out a hand to pick it up. Biggles was not aware of pulling his own hand back, it was a sort of reflexive jerk, and he only realized what he had done when Raymond turned his own motion into a casual move to pick up his cigarette from the ashtray at his elbow.
"I've never seen one in person before," Raymond said, after smoking contemplatively for a moment. "They don't survive beyond the death of the owner, you know. Von Stalhein may be the last living witch-soldier in existence."
Biggles hadn't known; his own heart caught a little. "I thought they couldn't be killed."
"It's possible, it's merely difficult. And any man, even one who has had this done to him, will live a normal lifespan regardless. He isn't immortal, he is only more durable than average." Raymond nodded to the box. "When you described to me the object you saw at Zabala, you didn't mention the tarnish. Has it always been like that?"
"No," Biggles said quietly. He had hoped it was only his imagination that the box had gleamed so much more brightly when he had first seen it among von Stalhein's things while searching his room in Palestine. Now, the blackened tarnish was sunk deep in the delicate etchings, nearly obscuring the fine detail of the wolf's fur and the fruit trees on the sides of the box.
It seemed to Biggles that it might even be worse, more blackened and degraded, than it had been when Fritz had first given it to him just a few days ago.
*
On Sakhalin, when all were back on board the Sea Otter, Biggles did not return the box to von Stalhein immediately.
During their journey he had spoken to Fritz extensively about the box, so he had an idea of what to expect when von Stalhein's heart was returned to him. Because of that, Biggles waited until they had all eaten and the others had begun settling down for sleep. Through this, von Stalhein sat in the back, barely responsive, mechanically eating what he was given, answering direct questions, otherwise seeming to care little what was done with him.
Throughout the evening Fritz looked anxiously towards Biggles on many occasions, but Biggles merely shook his head. As he was spreading out his blankets, the boy asked Biggles quietly and anxiously, "You will ...?"
"I will, of course. But I thought he would rather have it done in private."
Fritz nodded, still looking unhappy, but a little more soothed. He curled up in his blanket and was asleep almost instantly. Biggles smiled a little; he remembered how he, too, used to do that during the first war, snatching sleep where he could.
He went up to the cockpit, where Algy, on first watch, was sitting with a shaded lantern and—for lack of anything better to do—had spread out a map and was double-checking the calculations for their flight path in the morning. He looked up swiftly when Biggles leaned between the seats, and was already reaching for his breast pocket even before Biggles said quietly, "It's time."
During their journey from London to the East, Biggles had always kept the box with him. He did not want to see it out of his hands. But equally, he couldn't take the risk of physically bringing it onto Sakhalin, so he had left it in Algy's care. Biggles had never specifically told him what to do with it. Putting it in a storage compartment and guarding it would have been enough. But Algy had taken it from Biggles with the same care with which he had watched Biggles handling it for all those weeks, and now, with similar care, he took it from his inside pocket and placed it gently in Biggles's hands.
"Need anything else?" he asked, low.
"No. Just to be left alone for a little while."
Algy nodded and went back to the map. Biggles went quietly through the dark cabin, past his sleeping men, to where von Stalhein sat alone in the back. Von Stalhein had been given a cobbled-together mix of what dry and clean clothes they could spare for him, so now he wore a jumper of Bertie's that hung awkwardly on his too-thin frame, and a pair of Ginger's dry socks. He had also been given a blanket to wrap up in, but it lay carelessly across his lap as if he did not even care enough to put it around his shoulders. He seemed asleep, but he looked up when Biggles moved between the seats.
Without speaking, Biggles took another blanket from the storage locker and draped it across the seats in front of them, providing a small oasis of privacy despite the closeness of the Otter's cabin. Then he sat beside von Stalhein. It was nearly dark in the back of the cabin, with just a little light coming from Algy's lantern up in the cockpit. Biggles had to wait for his eyes to adjust before he could see that von Stalhein's head was turned to him, looking at him without speaking.
"I have something of yours," Biggles said quietly.
He took the box from the inside pocket where he had slipped it after retrieving it from Algy. It was, as always, warm in his palm, and lighter than he always felt it should be. He held it out.
The box at this point was a sad, tarnished thing, with a crack that was beginning (to Biggles's great concern) to show along one edge. But its beauty was still evident, and even in the near-dark behind the shielding blanket, it seemed to have an odd luster in the darkness, as if it all but glowed.
Von Stalhein made no move to take it, although his gaze followed Biggles's movements.
When Biggles had asked Fritz earlier, the boy had said, "The longer he is apart from it, the more painful his emotions are to him when it is recovered. He used to leave it sometimes with my mother and myself while he was gone. When he would return, he asked to have it back in the privacy of his room, with the door locked." After a hesitation, as if he felt he was betraying a confidence, Fritz had said softly, "Sometimes, through the door, I would hear him weeping."
Biggles wondered what it would be like to feel as little as von Stalhein seemed to feel when his heart was not with him, and then have all of that return in an instant, like the pins and needles of a compressed leg, but for a man's heart. And he recalled Fritz's worries that after such a long separation, von Stalhein and his heart could not be reunited at all, that whatever connection existed between them would be lost.
But as he held the box, warm and fragile in his hand, he saw von Stalhein looking at it. And it seemed to him that the dull gaze sparked with interest.
"It is yours," Biggles repeated. He placed it in von Stalhein's thin, cold hand, and carefully closed the other over it.
For a long moment, nothing happened, and Biggles had time to fear that Fritz's concerns might have been correct when a sudden shudder with the violence of a seizure went through von Stalhein's body. Shaking, he doubled over like a man in intense pain. His body was rigid.
Alarmed, Biggles reached out instinctively. He put a hand on von Stalhein's thin, shuddering shoulder, but it didn't seem like enough. With only the slightest hesitation, Biggles put a cautious arm around him and pulled him closer.
Biggles expected to be rebuffed. But instead von Stalhein fell against him sideways, as if collapsing in exhaustion. He turned his face into Biggles's neck, pressed it there, and stayed. Biggles felt dampness against his skin. The thin chest beneath the borrowed jumper heaved as if von Stalhein had been running and could not get a breath. Shivering wracked him, vibrating against Biggles's side.
"We took good care of it," Biggles said into the matted hair pressed against his cheek. He felt an absurd urge to speak, to reassure, even though he wasn't sure if von Stalhein was listening to him. "Fritz, Algy, and myself—it was never out of anyone's hands for an instant. Always with the goal of bringing it back to you, and making sure you would never be separated again for a moment, not if you didn't wish it."
As Biggles continued to speak, barely aware of his own words, he was not sure how much time passed before von Stalhein's ragged, shuddering breaths began to slow, his shivering eased, his body grew looser and more relaxed as he lay against Biggles.
"I know we already talked about this a little," Biggles continued on, groping for words with the desperate urge to keep talking in case it helped. "I would like it if you come back to London with us, you are very welcome to accompany us, but should you wish to be let off sooner, you have only to say so." Biggles took a breath. Von Stalhein's breathing had settled down; he was almost still. "If you do come back to London, I—I will do everything in my ability to ensure this never happens again. There is a safe in the Mount Street flat, it's hidden behind a painting and we keep our valuables there. You would be very welcome to store it with us, if such a thing would be agreeable to you. I understand if you might not want to have it apart from—"
He stopped speaking, startled, as he registered the truth that lay behind the limpness of the body against his and the slow breaths warming his neck.
Von Stalhein had fallen asleep.
Biggles moved a little, shifting his position. Completely limp, von Stalhein rolled slightly with the motion. His body twitched and shivered, and Biggles thought he was waking and stilled immediately. But it was only the jerky movement of a deeply tired man whose body was twitching with the adjustment to deeper sleep.
Carefully, trying not to move more than absolutely necessary, Biggles reached for the blanket that had been half draped across von Stalhein's lap, shoved now to one side. He wrapped it one-handed around the two of them. All the while, von Stalhein continued to sleep. The box was visible only in occasional glimpses as he held it tightly, two-handed, pulled close against him. Even in sleep his grip had not relaxed.
Biggles leaned back against the bulkhead. Von Stalhein turned a little, and Biggles stilled again, concerned about waking him. But this time it was to adjust himself a little more comfortably on Biggles's shoulder. His hands still clutched the box.
Biggles laid his own hand over them, moved the clasped hands a little so they were resting more comfortably on von Stalhein's thigh rather than clutched against his body. And then Biggles left his hand there, fingers curled protectively over the box he had carried for weeks—now returned where it belonged, a little tarnished yet, but gleaming with renewed silvery brightness between their joined fingers.
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I love how this really is exactly what happens in canon only with a metaphorical layer on top: Fritz really does deliver EvS’s heart to Biggles for safekeeping, and Biggles really does return it to EvS at the end <333
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This is honestly one of my favorite things I've written this year. <3
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