Sometimes, when she's all alone in her apartment, when the grief hits her the hardest and she can no longer ignore those insistent blue eyes in her mind, she'll get out the hilt of the God-Killer and stare at it, tracing her thumb over the remnants of the obscure symbols even she doesn't know how decipher. Her mind will flash back to that rainy night, full of smoke and shadows. The fire crackling in the hearth reminds her of the inferno lighting up the sky with a brilliant flash like the sun. The inferno she lost him in.
That's when she usually pulls on her Wonder Woman outfit (those funny mortals called her wonderful-if only they could see her mother, or Antiope. At this thought, the grief threatens to bury her alive). The first few times, the scent of smoke lingered on the clothing, and she spent an hour sniffing it, trying to retain her memories through its smell.
Then she goes out, fighting crime to discard those memories. The arrogant thief, thinking no one saw him in the dead of night, the businessman embezzling money, and more. Once, she even caught a spy in her golden lasso. She tries to block out that memory, too, reminding her too painfully of another spy in the same lasso.
Chief reminds her sometimes that she needs to get out more. Once, she even went dancing with Sammy. But it wasn't the same, and the night ended with her in bed, staring blankly at the opposite wall as if it could give her the answers.
It's at these times that she wishes on all the stars and the gods that she could see her mother again. She pictures that stern face, reprimanding her because all this pain was brought by her own actions. But she knows that if her mother were here, she could finally unburden herself, finally find some way to grieve for all the loss she's experienced in such a short time. But instead, her mother is another grief, another love lost. Another night spent staring blankly at the wall. But she never lets the tears fall.
Her thoughts always loop back to the first day on the beach. That day, when she hadn't yet realized the consequences of war, when her greatest problem was training with Antiope and the other Amazons. What she wouldn't give to go back there. Is it really better to have loved and lost, than to never have loved at all? She's not sure now.
Once she's settled into the rhythm of life after war, she does what he talked about. She reads a newspaper every morning, sipping her coffee. She doesn't really need the caffeine boost, but it helps. And no matter what she's doing, she makes sure his father's watch is on her wrist, tucked in her sleeves. As one by one, all her old friends fall prey to sickness, old age, and other causes, she remains, the last of them all.
Until one day, decades later, an assignment lands on her desk. Her friend from work looks down at her, eyebrows drawn. "They're doing an article about the fallen soldiers in World War I," she says. "You said you'd researched the war, right? So I thought you might want to write about it. I know you've never published anything before, but just take a look at it"
It's on the tip of Diana's tongue to say no. She thinks back to the war, the tumultuous shooting and explosions. She's not sure she can find it in her to put that into paper. But then an image pops into her head, of the picture taken after she and the boys saved that town. Before it was gassed. She can almost see those painfully bright blue eyes staring back at her. No one knows about Wonder Woman's involvement, or Steve Trevor, Chief, Samir, or Charlie. They've already been lost to history by everyone-except her. And of all people, they deserve it.
She nods slowly, looking back up. "Sure," she replies. "I'll do something."
At first, it is so hard putting it into words. How does one describe the desperation, the strength, the emotions of war? But she pushes through, and continues to write. For them. For her. Sometimes, she even switches languages to better sort out what she wants to say-something she knows Sammy must appreciate, wherever he is. She finds herself staring less at walls, and more at her computer screen, giving voice to her story of the Great War.
Later, once she finishes, and edits the article, taking out what she feels is too private to share, she realizes she wants it out in the world. She wants others to remember these people so dear to her heart. Now, it's a question of whether it'll publish.
She waits weeks, biting her nails (a habit she doesn't normally indulge in, but does now). And on a Tuesday in winter, just as the weatherman forecasts snow later in the evening, she finds her story in the newspaper. Unspoken Heroes of World War I, written by Diana Prince. She feels a glow of pride and satisfaction.
And it feels like fate, when she steps outside and she feels cold flakes of snowfall settling on her skin. She closes her eyes, breathing in the scent and recalling that swaying dance with Steve. Somehow, it no longer stings as much and she allows herself to picture the exact shade of blue in his eyes, the softness of his hair. With her eyes closed and enjoying the snow, she almost walks into an ice cream cart. It brings back memories of her first ice cream. So of course she buys one.
"You should be very proud," she says, smiling at the ice cream cart man.
"Thank you," he replies, smiling back with eyes as blue as the Themyscira sea.