☆1916, France☆
Remus ran until his legs ached, men shouting beside him, his general barking orders that no one was listening to anymore. The bombs fell out of the sky like burning planets and shook the ground as they came crashing down with a force that sent remus off his feet. His face hit the ground, his cheek colliding with thick, heavy grass. He tried to get up, tried to run again, but as he lifted his head, a boot collided with the back of his skull. And it all went black.
A ringing played in his ears, and remus' head pounded as his eyes blinked open again. A groan escaped his lips, and his head felt too heavy on his neck as he managed to sit up. "Fuck." Remus mumbles, dragging a scarred hand through his disheveled hair. Dirt caked his cheek along with spatters of blood that had dried across his forehead, his mind feeling foggy and thick. As he looked around, he managed to make sense that he was in a field whose grass was stained with craters made by bombs and dead men lying liking crimson flowers. But besides those men, remus was alone, he'd separated from his unit and now he was alone and injured in some bloody French field. Shit.
Remus stayed sat on the ground, his hands tracing the grass while he tried to think of what to do, but his head was foggy and even thinking took energy he didn't possess. He was about to give up, to lie on the grass and let the sun claim him in death, until a soft tone fluttered through his head.
"Bonjour? Êtes-vous un soldat français?" Remus turned his head in the direction of the voice, his eyebrows creased in confusion, and that was when he saw him. A man with long black hair, concerned grey eyes, and a pretty face that was tilted to the side in both curiosity and worry, peering at remus from the tree line. The man was a French soldier, remus came to realise as he stared for a while longer. That would explain the French, and the uniform, idiot, remus thinks to himself.
"No, British." Remus manages, his voice taught and horse. He didn't know much french, he'd never listened much in school when they taught the language, but he knew the soldier was asking if he was a French soldier, that much he could understand.
"Oh, are you alright?" The French man questions, now in British with a heavy accent as he steps closer, his face contorted into a clear display of relief as he realised remus, at least, isn't a German.
Remus didn't have time to answer before the French soldier was at his side, extending a pale hand, the sun behind him making his face glow and seem almost like an angel to an injured remus. And as he looked at him, remus didn't feel so scared anymore about the war and the fighting that had tortured him day and night.
"I'm sirius Black, unité 7." Sirius said softly as though he knew how the British soldier's head pounded.
"Remus lupin, unit 4." Remus mutters to the angelic soldier named sirius, taking his hand and letting himself be pulled up gratefully.