Disclaimer: I don't own War Horse, or any of the characters used in this fic. They all belong to their respective owners. I only own any of my original characters that I choose to include, as well as any of my own original plot ideas.
Poor Thing
A/N: Alternate events; follow up to "Like Ink."
She keeps coming back in the night, somehow filtering herself through the frightening dreams and into his head, first smiling in kindness, and then dropping on the floor of her crisp, clean kitchen, a letter clasped and wrinkled in her hands. She cries. And, every time, he bolts upright, Jamie doesn't scream, doesn't speak, but shudders, curls in on himself and tries to push her away. He doesn't need to think of her dying slowly without him to ease her pain.
The doctors, last he heard, still don't know what's wrong with her. Why she's stiff and sore all the time, why she leans over and coughs hard enough to remove a lung. Perhaps, if he had a pen, he'd tear one of the pages from James' book and write to her, ask that young German soldier if he could try and slip it into the mail for him. But he doesn't, and he won't. The boy's been kind enough to him already. And, though he is the enemy in this war, Jamie won't have his blood on his hands as well. No, he has quite enough of that from the failed cavalry charge.
It must be 1915 by now, for there was a great deal of celebration among the Germans about four months back, Christmas, if he remembers correctly. Jamie had spent the day on his backside, sitting up against the side of the building by his secret vault, content enough with recalling days where his mother would spend a good deal of time rum cake that would not be touched until after dinner.
She's dying without him, he knows it. Not just of her unknown illness, but of a broken heart. The poor dear's not heard from him in months, has no idea that he sits here in a prison camp, waiting for the day that the war will end. Of course, Jamie doesn't know if she's still living either. For all he knows, she could have passed last week, and he won't know about it until this hell is ended, until he's either dead himself or limping through her front door.
There was a woman whose shop his mother used to frequent. Pretty little thing with eyes the shade of warm almond skin and hair that was almost like ginger. His mother would often send him for supplies for her baking, and Jamie would stand there for nearly an hour chatting with her, laughing, and wondering just how lucky he was for a girl like that to pay attention to him. For the life of him, Jamie can't remember her name.
He sighs, knows that James would poke fun at him for forgetting. Tease and tell him that, were she so beautiful as he had always claimed, he'd have made space in his empty head with which to remember her.
But it won't come back to him, no matter how hard he tries. So Jamie concentrates on hoping, praying to God that she and his mother and brothers and sister are all well without him. That the sweet woman who raised him alone won't let go, won't slip away until he has chance to return.
Poor thing, he thinks. Poor thing.