InsaneJournal

Who: Padraig and English!George and then an appearance by Saint Darerca
What: "You took my brother..."
When: Christmas, 1920
Where: George's, London
Warnings: Violence!



Padraig had now been the prisoner of his brother for nearly four weeks. And as much as being confined in the tiny room drove him crazy, at least he was catching up on sleep. He should be with this countrymen, fighting for freedom. Instead, he was being served food in bed and feeling like a kept man. He resented George for doing it to him almost as much as he was glad he could actually spent time with his brother, since he hadn't had a chance to do so in years.

The chain around Padraig's ankle had long been removed, and for that, Padraig was grateful. In return for George's trust in that regard, Padraig behaved himself and he never rushed the door to attempt escape. Instead, he always sat when George entered and left the room, just so George knew Padraig was going to behave himself.

And George came and went quite a bit. Padraig was never too lonely for long, and for that he was grateful. When George was busy, Padraig was provided with books and other things to amuse himself. He didn't want for anything, save the ability to go home. He was probably the most spoiled prisoner in the world. He had even started to gain weight and he was starting to look healthy instead of dreadfully scrawny, something he had actually given up on a long time ago.

It was Christmas now, and Padraig found himself actually glad to be here for just this one day. Christmas was meant to be spent with family. When the door opened, Padraig actually smiled, putting aside the book he had been reading. "George, Merry Christmas."

George was in the process of brushing snow out of his hair, but he grinned at his brother cheerfully as he did.

"Merry Christmas!" George said. He was feeling remarkably chipper, which almost certainly had to do with actually spending Christmas with his brother. The fact that Padraig didn't actually have a choice about being somewhere else could be temporarily ignored for today. "And, in the spirit of giving, look what I got you."

He pulled a pair of jade shamrocks out of his pocket. A friend had brought several them back from China a few days ago, and George had bought two of them for Padraig.

"Someone in China has a fondness for either you or shamrocks. Or both."

Padraig hadn't been expecting gifts, but he accepted them in the spirit they were offered and he said nothing about preferring his freedom. "George, thank you!" Padraig liked anything that was shamrocks.

"I didn't make it to the shops this year, but you have been gifted with my presence," Padraig smirked.

George laughed and flopped onto the bed next to Padraig, toeing off his shoes.

"And a wonderful gift it is. It's not fit for man or beast outside. The snow's starting to pile up."

Padraig looked to his barred windows, but the sight of them just made his chest ache for a moment, so he concentrated on George instead. "I'll just be glad to be indoors then," Padraig mused. He put the shamrocks aside after admiring them more more time.

"George? If you want to have Christmas dinner at...I don't know, the table, I promise you I will behave myself." Getting out of the room sounded very good. Padraig was almost itching to do so. It wasn't dinner time yet, of course, but Padraig never assumed he wouldn't be having Christmas dinner with his brother today.

The smile on George's face grew a little wider. "Would you like to come help me fix it?"

He paused for a moment. "And by fix it, I mean do it for me so the house doesn't catch fire?"

Padraig snorted and he nodded with almost child-like enthusiasm. "I would very much like that. So you'll let me in the kitchen too then?!" Padraig didn't want to sound so incredibly excited about just cooking, but he was.

George laughed and hopped off the bed, opening the door with a flourish. "The kitchen, the cellar, you can have the run of the place."

He tried not to feel guilty about the fact that his brother was so happy about getting to leave the room he'd been cooped up in.

Padraig jumped off the bed, absolutely thrilled that George was letting him do this. It was so much better than Christmas dinner with George in his room.

Before he ever set foot out the door, however, there was a knock on the front door. Padraig froze and he craned his head in the direction of the front door, twitching slightly.

Beyond the front door was outside. And cold or no, outside was freedom.

Padraig's hands balled into fists and his body stiffened when he glanced at George quickly, obviously judging if there was enough space to run for it. Even though he didn't, he was still clearly considering it.

George stiffened, eyes narrowed as he stared at the door. He wasn't expecting anyone, and that alone made him paranoid about just who was showing up outside his house.

"Go back into the room, Padraig," George said, his voice low. "I'll see who it is, then we can have dinner."

The plea was clear: Please don't make me shove you back in there.

Padraig stayed where he was for another several seconds, staring at George and feeling ready to pounce. Then he bit his lip and nodded once. "Alright, George," he whispered, shuddering slightly as he stepped back so George could once again lock him in.

He didn't want George to have to shove him either. And if he behaved, he could still have a nice dinner. It was better than forcing George to chase him and wrestle him to the floor, chaining him back up on Christmas.

George locked the door carefully, feeling a little sick as he was doing it. This was wrong, what he was doing to Padraig. It was wrong, and yet the alternatives were equally upsetting to George. Things couldn't stay this way forever.

He shook his head, told himself to just deal with whomever was interrupting what should have been a nice dinner, and opened the front door.

Padraig had been missing since Bloody Sunday and many of the members of the IRA assumed he had been killed during his solo mission. They knew it had failed, since the death of someone so high up in the British government would have made the papers. Darerca knew her brother wasn't dead. She had an inkling where he was, and she sent out the word to some of her informants to try to prove her hypothesis.

Eventually word got back to her. Padraig had been taken and he was assumed dead. And to Darerca, it reeked of Saint George; the man who called himself Padraig's brother. But he wasn't. He wasn't even Irish. Padraig was her brother and she wasn't letting the filthy English saint take him away. History had tied Darerca and Padraig together and she would fight for him.

And so Darerca knocked on the door and she waited for an answer, a gun safely in her hand, since even though she was hardly helpless, Saint George was...well...Saint George.

When the door opened, Darerca glared at him, pointing her gun at his chest. "Hello, George. I hope you didn't plan on finding carollers out here. I'm looking for my brother.

George's eyes were narrowed in dislike before he even saw the gun. His love for Padraig didn't extend to the rest of the Irish saints involved in the rebellion. He tried to keep any trace of worry off his face, though he was worried.

They just had to send a woman. George couldn't hit women. Not human women or his fellow saints, anyway. It wasn't a matter of choice; being the patron saint of chivarly made it physically impossible. Instead, he just raised his hands and smiled coldly.

"Darerca. Lovely. I'm afraid I don't have a clue what you're talking about, so kindly leave before I call the police."

Darerca indicated that he should move backwards inside the house. No reason to involve anyone else who randomly happened to be paying attention on Christmas. "You aren't going to call the police, George. You are going to show me where you have been keeping Patricius, and you are going to let him leave with me. Or I can shoot you and do it anyway."

In his room, unable to hear the exchange, Padraig began to pace nervously. George wasn't back yet. What was happening?!

George moved back, keeping his hands at shoulder level and a look of disdain firmly on his face.

"Oh, you mean Padraig, my brother?" George asked, just to be annoying. "He isn't here. I'm not sure if you've noticed, being busy with childbirth and such, but there's been some nasty business in Ireland and we aren't on the best terms."

Darerca's eyes flashed as George not only insulted her, but claimed Padraig as his. "I know you have him hidden away somewhere," she hissed back at him. "You are not the only one with informants. And if you are keeping him here against his will, you don't deserve to call him 'brother', Saint George. He is my family! My blood! I will kill you. Tell me where he is."

"There's no one here but me and now, unfortunately, you," George said, sneering. "And your informants are idiots. Now get out of my house, because I'm not going to put up with this for much longer."

George was praying silently and ferverently that Padraig would stay completely still upstairs.

Darerca shook her head and she was about to say something more when there was a knocking that came from upstairs.

Padraig was beside himself with worry, though he didn't know what he should be worried about. George hadn't returned and Padraig realised that if he was in trouble, Padraig couldn't help from behind this locked door. What if someone had just randomly shown up and ended up distracting George so that Padraig would be stuck in his damned room all by himself on Christmas, getting hungrier and hungrier.

What if someone was hurting him!?

"George?!" Padraig yelled, unaware if George could hear him, though certainly the pounding on the door would carry. "George!"

Darerca smirked at George and she raised the gun. "So who is that then, George? Saint Nicholas? Take me to my brother. Now."

George wondered briefly if Darerca would believe that it really was Saint Nicholas. Probably not. So he just smiled a cold smile at her and made his way to Padraig's room.

This was all going very, very wrong.

"We have a visitor," George said as he unlocked the door, bringing Padraig face to face with him, Darerca, and her gun.

Padraig had continued to slam his fists against the door until he heard footsteps approaching. And he stepped back in time to let the door swing open. Dee having a gun trained on George was about the last thing he had expected to see, and the sight of it made his blood run cold.

Padraig knew his sister well. She would shoot George without remorse in order to protect him.

With his heart suddenly hammering against his ribcage, he said, "okay! Dee, put the gun down. This isn't what it looks like." It was a blatant lie. Anything to keep her from shooting George.

Darerca glanced in the room for only a second and she noted the bars on Padraig's window. "It looks to me like someone who claims to love you is keeping you locked up like a slave," Dee said, her eyes flashing at George.

"Dee, just put the damn gun down," Padraig breathed. "George...you have to let us go. I'm sorry, but you have to let her take me." There was pleading in his voice, but it wasn't actually for his sake right now.

George glared back at Darerca, wanting to hit her very, very hard right in the jaw, chivalry be damned. That bitch.

"I can't stop you from leaving," George said, voice still cold. But when he looked at Padraig, his expression softened, an apology in his eyes.

"No," Darerca said with a sneer. "You can't." And she raised the gun and shot George in the chest. She was talented and angry enough with a gun to make it fatal, but not immediately so. George would have a few minutes in anguish before he died.

Padraig couldn't hold back his scream as he watched his sister shoot his brother right in front of him. It felt like all the air left the room and Padraig's legs didn't seem strong enough to support him and he didn't understand how he was still standing.

George had just been shot in the chest. How could Padraig still be standing?

"George!" Padraig cried out, falling to his knees beside his brother. Padraig struggled to get his shirt over his head so he could hold it against the wound, trying to stop George from losing all his blood. "You shot my brother!" Padraig screamed at Darerca.

"He was keeping you prisoner and he would have had us arrested the second we left," Darerca explained, looking unconcerned.

Padraig groaned, holding his shirt to George's chest. "I don't give a shit, what he did, he' still my brother and you shot him! Go! Get out!"

"No," Darerca said, refusing to move.

"Oh, George, I'm so sorry," Padraig rushed to say. "You'll be okay, alright? We can call for help."

"No you won't," Darerca said, raising her gun away, this time aimed at Padraig.

George had actually been expecting the flash of the gun, really. That didn't make the sudden, shattering pain any less unpleasant.

He was on the ground before he really understood what was happening, his legs unable to support him. Shattered spine, probably. His chest was warm, blood already soaking his skin and his shirt. He couldn't move his legs at all. He couldn't make the rest of his body stop shaking.

He was going to die in his own house. That bitch.

"Padraig," George gasped out, holding onto his brother so tight that it had to hurt. He was barely aware of Darerca and her gun anymore. All that mattered was Padraig, kneeling above him and looking horrified. "Padraig, I'm so sorry. So sorry. Please, I didn't know what else to do, I wanted to keep you safe, please-"

Darerca aiming the gun at Padraig cut off his babble, and George snarled up at her. "If you hurt him, I'll murder you and make sure you stay dead, so help me God."

"Shhh, shhh, she won't hurt me," Padraig reassured his brother, his hands still trying to stem the flow of blood from George's wound. "George it's-" Padraig struggled with his next words, but he said them anyway. "-George it's okay. It's okay, I know you wanted to keep me safe. I forgive you, it's okay." He didn't care that George was clinging to him so hard it hurt. He didn't feel anything except his shattered heart. His hands were stained with his brother's blood. If he had just been silent, maybe George would be fine and they would have been cooking dinner by now.

"Patricius, get off the floor and come with me. We are in the middle of a war," Darerca said, annoyed. She didn't understand the affection between these two. At all. "Get up!"

"Fuck off, you shot my brother!" Padraig growled at Darerca, tears forming in his eyes. "I'm not leaving him. George, I'm not leaving you."

George laid his hand over Padraig's, the one that was pressing his shirt against the wound. He squeezed gently, the message clear enough. This is a lost cause.

And it was. Darerca was an excellent shot, he'd give her that. The bullet had hit dead center in his chest.

"I love you," George said, trying to make the words clear because he knew people who were dying started to slur as the life left them.

He felt cold. Very, very cold.

"I love you," he repeated, and it sounded faint even to his own ears. "I'm so sorry, Padraig. I'm so sorry."

He kept up the litany even as it stopped making sense, his face going numb as the blood poured out of him. The last thing he saw before everything went black was Padraig's face, tears running down his cheeks.

Then George's body went limp, unmoving. He was gone.

Padraig didn't move a muscle while George died. He clung to his brother's hand and he kept his shirt pressed to George's chest even though he knew it was a lost cause. He knew his sister was an excellent shot.

He knew George loved him.

Padraig had repeated his promise that everything was okay until George was gone, and then he lifted the back of a bloody hand to his face to wipe his tears away.

"I have sat in that room every day hoping something would happen and I could go home," Padraig growled, his voice low. He refused to look at his sister. "But I never once wished harm on George. I would rather spend another month...another year...forever in there instead of this."

Darerca shook her head, dropping the tough act now that George was gone. She lowered the gun as well. "I'm sorry, Patricius. But you know he wouldn't have let us leave. He left us no choice."

Padraig sniffed and he wiped his cheeks again. "There is always a choice," he growled, leaning down to kiss his brother and to close George's eyes. He knew George would be back, but Padraig would never unsee the image of George, dying in front of him, begging for forgiveness.

He rose then, and collected a clean shirt from his room. Before he left, he grabbed the two shamrocks George had given him for Christmas. They ended up bloody and stained, but he shoved one of them in a bag with a few more clothes anyway.

"No need to threaten me," Padraig said, sounding hollow now. "I'll come with you. Just a moment."

Before he left, Padraig grabbed a blanket and he spread it over George's body so that when George came back into it, he wasn't too cold. Then he set the other jade shamrock next to George's head for him to find. A message. He was forgiven.

"Take me home," he whispered to his sister, when he had finished. And she did.