Chapter Text
1915
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Tabby had died. Run away from home. She had loved her brothers and her mother, but eventually she met the end of her life. A clever girl, a strange girl. Interested in the classical world, the histories. She preferred the company of a book, busying herself with her own education as opposed to finding comfort and companionship in her peers.
Perhaps another way that one could have described Tabby would be a reject. Socially, she didn’t get along with other girls, a certain disconnect. It was palpable. She didn’t concern herself with boys. True that every parent wishes for their daughters to keep to themselves: Tabby showed a concerning disregard for all of her typical gender experiences.
She had died in 1905. Soon after, T.E Lawrence, a 17-year-old boy soldier, joined the Royal Garrison Artillery at St Mawes Castle in Cornwall. He was short, strange, and had a softly spoken, mellow voice. But a hard worker and a clever lad. Often mistaken for being younger than he was. Lawrence tried in vain not to draw attention, but eventually left to pursue his own studies and to collect information on various historical sights, all before moving on to higher education.
There was something different about T.E Lawrence, hard to put one’s finger on; it was a strange otherness. Perhaps, he was just an odd fellow.
In August, after his Negev mission, conflict broke out. While there was immediate pressure to enlist, there would be a medical inspection. To say Lawrence’s identity and security would be compromised was generous. Thankfully, before much more suspicion was raised, Lawrence was summoned to the Arab intelligence bureau in Cairo by Dryden. And it was there he stayed safely, with his maps and his rooms and his too-large uniform that concealed his deepest secrets and shame until his world shattered once again.
It should have been him.
The telegraph stated what Lawrence had feared since the war had begun. His brothers- the two younger brothers that Lawrence cared for so deeply in his soul- were dead. Killed on the Western Front.
And where was Lawerence? In a room, Cairo. Barely comparable to the trenches. The Western Front was a noble fate, a fight for a man’s homeland. And his brothers had died that honourable death instead of him. Lawrence had wanted to enlist, even if he was born with the right anatomy, and even if he had been greeted as “good lad” for his childhood, he would haven’t been allowed in. Too short - a weak trait, it was a feminine trait. He was painfully aware of it. Just like he was painfully aware of his waist, his hips, his chest. He was thin, which accounted for most of the problems associated with a feminine body. There was little indeed that some bandages couldn’t account for. Most of the men’s clothing was big enough to solve the rest. But he wished that he were taller, that his arms weren’t as loose in their sleeves. That he still sat with the memory of being told to put one’s legs together. Proper men weren’t supposed to find that comfortable. Ironically, this comfort only sparked more discomfort at his differences. An emptiness, a hole that lay between. Lawrence was suddenly aware of his seat at the map table, his cushy seat. Surrounded by the other men who had noticed his absent stare. Lawrence had hoped he hadn’t made a noise or any other embarrassing reaction. He excused himself and wandered about the mess; the rest of the day moved as slowly and hotly. Sticky and warm, oozing between the hours. Lawrence felt himself drowning in the thickness of it. Stuck in between the pages of the book that were glued together. He couldn’t think of anything but his brothers, his poor family. He wished he could still return and grieve alongside them. How unfortunate to lose so many children. Tabby's
death had killed something in him; it had also removed the connection. Now Laurence was a bastard and an orphan.
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Lawrence was always a fitful sleeper. He awoke in the middle of the night and the early hours of the morning to write an idea down, to wander, or simply to lie for another hour or two unflinchingly at the ceiling. While in the desert, the nights would be cold, Cairo was hot. Always hot. He wished he could remove the long shirt he wore to bed. Back when Lawrence used to be at no risk of being disturbed, whenever he woke up in the midst of sleep, he always removed the article of clothing. He missed sleeping shirtless; perhaps it was being able to breathe after being bound for his entire waking life. Nonetheless, it was something he had to sacrifice on the off chance another party woke him.
Tonight, he couldn’t even drift to sleep, his clothing stuck to his back and chest. He felt the hair on his forehead collect the grime of sweat as the night went on. It was like being tormented with a fever of some kind. As the hours continued to pass by, he felt hunger crawl its way up once more. It had been a significant amount of time after dinner.
When Lawrence awoke the next morning, he found the grime of sweat sucking his clothing to damp skin. It disgusted him; he cleaned himself up, died off- you had to make sure to be dry for the bandages. And went downstairs. Being both short and slim, the uniform he wore hung more so off Lawrence’s body and seemed to be attracted to the floor instead.
He made his laps around The Mess before being sent back down to the nasty dark room where he idly painted maps- painted maps! Lord, he couldn’t do this anymore. Lawrence retreated to a washroom.
He gripped the sink, pressing his wrists into the cool surface. Wishing they were able to cut right through and take him away from it all. He kept his eyes focused on the water as it ran down the drain; he kept his eyes down. If Lawerence were to bring his eyes up to meet his own reflection, he- well, let's not think about that.
And was he just supposed to return?? To go back to water colours, to the maps? To newspapers. Lawrence had no combat experience, no fieldwork. Nothing. And why would he? Weaselled himself in through pure luck and intellect. Not because he was a soldier, not because of his nation, not- not because he was a man.
A man.
A man would have been on the western front, a man would have died with his brothers, and a man would be strong. Not skinny and weak. A man would be able to wander as he pleased throughout his quarters, wearing what he pleased. And a man would wear bandages only to nurse a wound.
His mother was right. Lawrence would disappoint the family; he had disappointed them. Second eldest, a young, pretty and witty thing that could marry well and receive a last name that bought honour instead of shame. Here he was with a false name, a false identity. And he was nothing. Nothing but a disappointment.