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Gwaine reloaded his rifle calmly and quickly, glancing at his commander. Colonel Pendragon was one of those army men who drove Gwaine steadily mad, always self-assured and mildly self-important. He cared about his men, though, Gwaine had to give him that. Pendragon had flat-out told them that they would all be captured or killed in this mission. He had only taken volunteers to hold the line in this little field outside Dunkirk, letting the others break for the shoreline to wait for evacuation. Gwaine had shrugged and looked over at his best friends, one a lanky fellow named Merlin, who had an even better knack for getting under Pendragon's skin than Gwaine himself, the other a quiet, burly man named Percival. The three men had exchanged glances and stepped forward together. Gwaine would rather go down fighting than standing on a beach waiting for a strafing run to pick him off.

After a few more times reloading, Gwaine heard it. A high-pitched wail rose over the sound of gunshots and shells. Gwaine knew that sound. He'd heard it back home in Barnaderg before he'd moved to Durham for work. He felt, rather than saw, Merlin shiver next to him. Both of them looked over in the direction they heard the keen coming from. Directly behind Colonel Pendragon, a beautiful woman stood, an apparition dressed in a green dress with a grey cloak, her face devastated from crying. She was joined by another, and another, and one more after that, all lamenting in an eerie chorus as they looked around at all of the British soldiers. Gwaine took a deep, unsteady breath and his eyes met Merlin's. They nodded at each other. Tears briefly marred Gwaine's vision before he lifted his rifle and took aim at his next target.