Ahoy, people! This story was something that just spilled out of my head last month after reading a lovely little ficlet by thetardisisjawnlocked on Tumblr about Capt. Nicholls saying goodbye to his wife. PM me and I'll try and send you the link to the original story. Wouldn't want to get all the credit for the idea!

Devonshire, 30 November, 1918 - Evening

The sun was setting in blood and fire as a young soldier with an old face crested the hill above the Narracott farm. The Devon landscape was black against the dying light, and for one blink of time the surrounding hillocks took on the aspect of piled corpses to the young man's eyes. He stopped for a moment, telling himself it was just to watch the sunset, but he knew it was mostly to rest his broken, veteran's body. Thirty-two years old and already an invalid and cripple, his ruined lungs, arthritic legs, scarred face, and missing right arm had excited pity, if little charity, from all he had met since he'd touched his native land for the first time in four years just one week before. He still remembered with burning humiliation getting down on all fours with ridiculous Shakespearean romanticism to kiss the ground when he'd left ship, only to have his knees lock and be stuck there like a turtle on its back until a bemused passer-by stopped to help him to his feet.

He was already regretting the decision to walk from town, but there were some habits men of his breeding never lost - no matter how much they might resemble the detritus scraped from the heel of Fate's boot. The cold, excruciating hike was probably in vain – the boy might be gone, or dead like so many others of his generation. He couldn't even be quite sure what exactly he planned on doing there even if the boy was to be found. He could only remember the words of a foolish promise made ages before, words that somehow continued to guide him when it became evident that God wasn't going to allow him a peaceful death on the field of glory. No, he'd always told himself, if Heaven insisted on keeping him around for a useless plaything, he'd be damned if he didn't somehow get back to Devon and explain to Albert Narracott about his horse.

France, 15 October, 1914 - Dawn

Captain James Nicholls stroked the neck of his war horse, Joey, and thought of Albert and the tearful parting war had forced between this beautiful animal and its true master. The pennant he had hung from the saddle gathered pollen as he slowly lead the horse through the tall grass behind the German camp. Joey looked at him and whinnied – he wanted to be galloping on a beautiful morning such as this.

"Patience, Joey. You'll get your run, never fear."

Cap. Nicholls rested his head against Joey's neck. He inwardly cursed the lovely morning that would be the last for so many good Englishmen. For so many good Germans for that matter. He cursed Major Stewart and his goddamned pride. He cursed himself, for not knowing how to stop the whole bloody fucking school-boy show.

Major Stewart's idea of a good war had always been that of a lad at school who never did the reading, but talked like he did. Jabber Jamie, as they'd called him, could wax on and on about serving God and honouring the King, about "dulce et decorum est" and the virtue of Aeneas and the sword of Achilles. As if this morning's battle were another recital in front of Batty Lyttelton's desk. But it was quite obvious he'd never actually wrestled with the Latin & Greek as Nicholls had, had never contemplated the oceans of blood that washed the walls at Troy, that haunted the dreams of Odysseus over the wine-dark sea, and followed Agamemnon home even to the door of his bath. Nicholls had never seen war up close, but he'd done enough reading to know that duty could be cold, and honour terrible, and death in battle beautiful only in hind-sight.

"I'm sorry, Joey. I'm sorry for what I am about to do. To both of us."

Narracott Farm, 30 November, 1918 - Twilight

Rose Narracott's heart began to gallop in her chest when she heard the steps on the front walk, but fell back to normal when whoever it was knocked at the door. Albert would never have knocked. But maybe some news . . .? She hurried to answer it.

"Good day, ma'am," said the ragged, muddied soldier on the stoop, removing his hat. Then he stood there, seemingly unsure what to say next, hat competing awkwardly with his cane for space in his single hand. They were both silent, both somehow assenting in that moment to the fact that he wanted to be standing on a different stoop, and she wanted to be welcoming a different young man.

Rose studied him. His captain's uniform was threadbare and patched, his rank evident by the bare-shapes on his lapel where his officer's insignia should have been. His face, once handsome, was ravaged by a thick red scar that started on one cheek by the mouth and ran all the way back to his ear – the perfect jawline and cheekbone on his left side evidence of what had been lost on his right. But his eyes, though clouded with long pain and weariness, still shone the most hopeful and serene blue Rose had ever seen outside of a morning in May. His thick blonde curls, long in need of a trim, reminded her of Albert.

"I'm, er, sorry to disturb you, ma'am, but –"

"Is it about Albert?" Rose crossed her arms and steeled herself for a blow of pain or joy.

"Well, yes . . ." Her heart sped up. "He isn't . . . here, is he?"

She dropped her arms to the side and took a defeated step back. "No. No, he ain't here. He ran off for the army last year after that horse of his, and we, er, we haven't had a word since." She shrugged and tried to smile. "The boy never was very much good for writing . . ."

"He . . ." A sound that might have been laughter or might have been a sob escaped the stranger's throat. "He . . . joined up . . . to look for his horse?"

"Aye. Albert loved Joey like ne'er a man loved a lady, he did."

The ragged soldier shuddered, his already-pale face losing the rest of its colour. "Damn," he whispered, his cane shaking as he struggled to keep upright on weakening knees.

Rose's disappointment gave way to motherly concern, and she reached forward to steady him. "I'm so sorry for keeping you standing out there in the cold. Won't you please come in? Supper's near done, and I've already got the kettle boiling and you look as if you've been enough on your legs for any man in weather like this."

He cleared his throat and blinked, shaking his head like a man trying to wake from a deep sleep. "Er . . . yes, I . . . I think . . . I apologise . . . I mean, thank you, yes. I'm so sorry to be a nuisance."

Rose smiled. "I've been wishing for a nuisance in uniform to show his face at my door ever since Albert went away."

She took his arm to guide him over the stoop and into the warm kitchen. "You'll do, for now."