Naomh Pádraig | Saint Patrick (naomh_padraig) wrote in nevermore_past, @ 2012-07-19 17:33:00 |
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Entry tags: | saint george, saint padraig |
Who: Padraig and English!George
What: A phone call
When: May 13th, 1916
Where: Their respective...places
Padraig had sent his heartfelt appeal to his brother, and nothing had come of it. He had no way of knowing whether or not George had acted and merely been unable to do anything. He didn't know if George had even cared about his passionate plea.
And over the past two weeks Padraig had sat in stony silence while his comrades were executed, one by one, until all fifteen of the people who had signed the proclamation of the Irish Republic which had started the Easter Rising were killed.
Padraig couldn't take it anymore. He had moved once already since his house had been raided by the British Police. He sincerely hoped George hadn't sent them. Either way he wanted to hear his brother's voice. Even if it meant he was going to hear horrible words from his brother's lips.
In the safe house, Padraig went to the phone and he asked to be connected to England. It was important. And soon enough, his brother's phone was ringing.
The truth of the matter was that George had needed to be told about the Easter Risings. He still felt some shame from that, from not even noticing something that important so close to home. But he was stretched thin already, spread across the British Empire's colonies and protectorates, and that had been before the war started. Now he had his attention focused on dozens of different countries and battlefield all across Eurasia and Africa. It was difficult to handle.
When he'd gotten Padraig's letter, he'd done his best to argue for clemency for the captured men, but it had come to no avail. George wasn't surprised. Britain was handling rebellion increasingly poorly these days, especially when it was so close to England.
He barely noticed the phone on his desk ringing, intent on reports from British East Africa. When he finally did hear the sound, he picked it up hurriedly. "Hello?
"George?" Padraig asked, too frazzled to recognise George's equally frazzled voice. "George, it's Padraig." He knew he would sound terribly exhausted, but he didn't expect George to sound different.
"Padraig?" George sat up a little straighter, rubbing his eyes to clear them. "Oh thank God, Padraig. I tried calling you, but there was no answer at your house and...and I was worried you were avoiding me."
Hmm, he had not meant to be quite that upfront about how he was feeling. Perhaps he should have made more tea.
Padraig sighed and he twisted his hand in the phone cord as he leaned his chin on his free hand. "I had to move. Raids. I'm guessing you didn't send them then?"
"No," George said firmly. He might not have approved of Padraig's doubtless involvement in the Easter Rising, but he was not going to allow his brother to be sent to jail again, rebel sympathizer or not. "No, it certainly wasn't me. Are you someplace safe now?"
"I am, George. I can't tell you where, but it's safe. So you got my letter? I didn't want to put you in the middle of anything, George. But I had to try."
"I tried, Padraig," George said with a sigh, sitting back in his chair tiredly. "But with the war going on, they're not keen on being merciful to rebellions, especially ones that are so close to home."
Padraig stiffened at the use of the word 'rebellion' even though he understood why George was using it and he knew it was the right word. If you didn't see Ireland as a country in it's own right. Which George likely did not.
"They executed all of them, George. One by one. It started on the third and yesterday they shot James Connolley. He was so badly injured they had to tie him to a chair because he couldn't stand. He stood up for his country and he couldn't even stand up to die."
George dropped his forehead into his hand. "What do you want me to say? I'm sorry for it, Padraig, I truly am, but I can't force the government to listen to me. I wouldn't even if I could. There was nothing I could do."
"I understand, George," Padraig said, feeling raw. "I'm just...talking. I feel like my heart his being ripped open." It wasn't normal for Padraig to speak so candidly about his feelings either. He wrote them down, as he always had, and he spoke eloquently about God, but when he spoke about himself he did not usually speak about emotions. Now was a time when he couldn't help but do so.
"The rest of them have been arrested. And I see the hope of my people dying out and it hurts."
"I'm sorry," George said, truly meaning it. "If there was anything I could do to stop it, I would have done it. I don't want them to be killed any more than you do. It's not the right thing to do."
George instinctively reached for his cup of tea, and was frustrated when he was reminded that he'd already drained it a half hour ago. "I think any rebellion is going to be met just as harshly. If you want to keep your people safe, it would be much better to wait."
Padraig slowly curled his fingers into a ball in the phone cord, trying not to last out at his brother. This wasn't George's fault, but he was the patron of the country that was the problem.
"Wait for what, George? Why should they wait to be considered anything but second class citizens!?"
"Wait for there not to be a war on!" George said, rubbing the bridge of his nose in frustration. It wasn't that he didn't agree with Patrick, to some degree. The Irish had been treated unfairly for far too long. But it was simply not something he could focus on right now. "All of Europe's gone up like a powderkeg and we're fighting a war across half of the world. Ireland is not the government's priority right now, Padraig, and I'm sorry but I don't think that's going to change soon."
Padraig breathed out a sigh and he hung his head. "If England would let Ireland govern herself, she would at least be a priority to someone," Padraig half-growled. He understood the war was draining and focus-pulling, but why should Ireland's quest for freedom just be forgotten in the midst of it?
"It tears me up inside, George. And there's not enough opium in the world to numb this pain."
That was probably a low blow, all things considered.
That was like a punch to the gut, and George shot to his feet. He snarled into the phone, "What do you want me to do?! I'm being serious, brother, tell me how I can fix all of this for you. Should I march through the streets declaring that I'm Saint George and that everyone who doesn't support Irish independence is being sent right to Hell? Should I take Parliament hostage and behead the PM? I can't wave my hands and make your country free, and I'm not in charge over here, so don't take your frustration out on me!"
Padraig leaned forward until his forehead was touching the desk. He tilted the phone so the mouthpiece was still close enough to pick up his voice. And then he said, "I'm sorry." And that was all he had in him, at least until George wasn't yelling any more. He would have yelled back. He had screamed replies on the tip of his tongue, but at the moment he didn't have the energy. "I'm sorry, George. It's not you. You're not the problem."
He wasn't exactly the solution either.
George was tapping his pencil rapidly on the top of the desk, breath still coming fast. He wanted to calm down, to try and talk about this rationally with his brother, but he just felt too emotional. It was all too close to home, and there was nothing he could do to help Patrick. There was nothing he could do at all.
"I'm sorry, too. But I don't think there's anything I can do to fix this, Padraig."
"I didn't expect you to fix it. Just to listen to me," Padraig groaned and he lifted his head from the desk. "I don't expect you to fix everything for me, George. You're my brother, you are not God. I should have known you would feel like you should be fixing things anyway. Typical big brother. Just-" Padraig shook his head. He didn't know what else to say. "Some things might happen soon, and I need you to know I love you."
George rubbed his forehead, suddenly feeling like he was on the verge of either crying or yelling. He missed the days when things had been easy between himself and his brothers so much.
"I love you too, Patrick," he said, voice low. "Please be safe."
Padraig couldn't promise he would be safe. So instead he said, "I'll try. Goodbye, George."
There was a hitch in his voice when he realised it may be the last time he spoke to his brother in a very long time.
"Patty," George said, stumbling over the dozens of things that he wanted to say. He swallowed a few times, rubbing at his eyes. "If you ever need anything at all that I can give you...a place to stay, money, anything, it's yours. No matter what."
Padraig remained silent momentarily, forcing himself to keep his pent-up emotion inside where it belonged.
"Same to you," he finally said, though he knew he had very little to offer now and would for the forseeable future. He still meant it.