Soooo I did say that there were some deleted scenes that I meant to post, not to mention, I didn't intend to go through all the effort of writing a story where Walter comes back not to continue with the possibility! So, yeah. Here be drabbles set in the future, stuff filling in the gap between the last chapter and the epilogue, stuff taken out of the original story, etc etc etc! Posted as I write them/polish what's already written. And! Feel free to leave prompts and stuff in the comments/on my LJ or Tumblr or whatever. :D

Title of the fic is from "Eric's Song" by Vienna Teng (as always), and the chapter title is from Rilla of Ingleside by L.M. Montgomery.

wounded and missing

"What does that mean?" Una asks. "'Wounded and missing.'"

They are sitting in Rainbow Valley, at what Walter has come to think of as their place, in the shade of the White Lady. It is spring, and the leaves are sprouting on her branches, delicate and new. Walter wonders if it is painful for them, to stretch and sprout and grow.

It is spring, and Jem is wounded and missing.

They had not cried when the news had come, had sat in shocked silence and then slowly moved to continue the day. For what else could they do? There is no grief, for Jem is not dead (or, at least, they don't know it yet - but no, Walter won't think about that). Only missing.

Walter coughs, not quite sure how to break such information gently. None of his family had asked - "I'd rather not know," Rilla had sighed before hurrying off to throw herself into her duties; Mother and Dad had only murmured that knowing would make no difference; Susan speculates but clings to the stubborn conviction that he is all right, that nothing that bad can happen.

"I don't know," he admits. "He could have just lost his identification - he could be convalescing in a hospital in England right now. With Faith, even."

Una just looks at him. "You don't think so, though, do you?"

Walter pauses, then shrugs. "No. I don't."

Una tucks her legs under her and waits, as she always does.

"If he's missing," Walter says finally, the words coming out staccato, "then he might have been taken prisoner. That happens, you know, in trench raids." He does not wish to admit the other possibility - that if Jem has not, in fact, become a German prisoner, then he must somehow be in no condition to identify himself. Perhaps he is horribly injured, unable to speak or write. Walter had seen men, like that, in the hospital. Some had healed, their speech made mushy and incomprehensible in their rebuilt mouths, scratching out letters like children with trembling hands. Some had not. And perhaps Jem is - well. Walter has already considered that possibility.

Una bends to rest the side of her head on her knees, her face turned to his. She considers him for a moment, then quietly says, "I'm sorry."

Walter nods, feeling a lump in his throat. Jem, missing. Jem, who had - has - always been so brave and strong. If something were to happen to Jem - if something more were to happen to Jem - and, he, Walter, is the one to survive - well. That would be terribly ironic, he reflects.

He understands, now, how hard it is to wait, what his family and his friends have suffered these past years. If he were still in the trenches, he could fight and - and take vengeance, perhaps, picture every German as the one who took his brother. If he were in the trenches, it would not even matter - he might even envy Jem, to be in a prison camp instead of in battle, to be sleeping under the mud instead of lying awake with frayed nerves and nightmares lying in wait.

Instead, he can only wait, wait and pray foolishly and desperately, every day without word from Jem like scratching at a wound, keeping it open and raw.

"We'll keep faith," Una says gently, taking his hand.

"Keep faith," Walter repeats. It is all they can do.