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.
Disenchanted
A/N: Post-War Horse; alternate events; follow up to "Give Me A Reason."
Johanna reaches up, clutches at his cap, gives it a tug and pulls it down into his eyes. He scowls, says nothing, even as Emma quietly tells her not to touch, pushes it pack up for him and pats his shoulder. Baby girl is oblivious to what goes on around her as those around them stand holding handkerchiefs and fighting back shudders. James grits his teeth, hasn't had the courage with which to say a thing the whole of the day, even while watching his mother cry.
He'd fallen ill some months ago, his father, just days after Christmas. Had kept it hidden from all but her until the days in which it had grown worse. Influenza, he's heard someone say, and James doesn't doubt it. People seem to die from that sort of thing all the damn time these days.
His baby squeals again, and James pulls her closer, bounces her a bit so as to appease her, and shuts his eyes as the rest of them stifle sobs. He's not been home six months and things have already progressed for the worst, and again he wonders why God has allowed him to be here, if only to stand by as an audience for more death. James finds himself a bit ashamed of the godawful thing he's wearing, the uniform that, in July of the year past, his father had been so very proud of. He'd told James he would come home a hero, a stronger man, that he himself had never possessed the courage held by his son, to pick up and leave home for the sake of fighting for those whom he had never had chance to meet. The day he'd left home, James had been proud of that, thrilled that there was at least one man who didn't think him a wretched fool.
The gentle fraying has been patched up now, by Emma's hand, but he can still feel the holes, flinches as Johanna coos, fingers closing around the top of his empty sleeve. He's not at all the man he was when the war began.
How many of his men died, he wonders? How many of them, if any, were sent home to their families, were given the proper honors deserved by men so great? How many of their families had received letters, had dropped everything and cried as their hearts were torn away?
His father had been oblivious to all his nightmares, his suffering, told him he was a lucky man to come home the way he had, come home and been able to see his wife, his baby, again. But James hadn't felt the least bit fortunate, even all these months as he tried to convince himself otherwise. Why, he's so bloody lost, that he's started to think that Jamie and Charlie's certain deaths are his fault.
Emma will hate him should he let it slip, so he'll hold his tongue and say nothing. But it won't change the fact that it should be him buried in this cemetery, if not on the battlefield, instead of his friends, his father, finally at peace.
He's so disenchanted with life now.