Thanks to all of you who read and reviewed the first chapter of 'As though from far away'. Your thoughts and suggestions are much appreciated - a review can often make my day!

For a while, I wanted to write a SG fanfic that was a bit 'darker' than what I had previously published. I am hoping to delve deeper into human nature, and the consequences of decisions, in this story.

For this story, I don't intend the narrative to flow chronologically, so it may seem to jump around from place to place. Let me know what you think! hopefully it will all come together eventually.

Set during WW1 - which was waged from June 1914- November 1918.

Chapter 2

Humming lightly under her breath, she pushed open the door to her room.

She dimly remembered a time when the room had belonged to her aunt, when she had roamed there as a child. Tangled and overgrown it had been then, ivy penetrating through the stone walls. The room was now her sanctuary. She could not remember exactly when she had begun to dwell there.

The floor of the room was littered with papers, dirty dishes and candle stubs. She had not taken kindly to the maids who had tried to bring order to the chaos. It was her space, and hers alone.

She would often fall asleep on the floor, and awake to find the door ajar and a tray containing a warm meal placed outside. Dimly she would eat, vaguely recalling a time when she dined surrounded by others – by Colin, and her uncle.

The walk that afternoon had brought back disturbing memories. Swallows had swooped in the sky as she walked, and she had tried to drown out the thoughts by singing. She had found herself watching the bird as it circled and dived, remembering how the form of it had been immortalised on his forearm 'so I will return home to you again' he had announced to her with an uncanny solemnity in his voice.

She sat down on the floor, barely noticing her dirty skirts bringing up a cloud of dust. The pounding in her head had begun, and today it was worse than usual.

Headaches were nothing new to her though, for she had them almost daily. She reached into her pocket of her gown, searching for the small key that lay within, panicking for a moment when she couldn't find it then feeling relief flood over her when her fingers found the smooth metal. With her other hand she reached behind her, feeling under her bed for the tin box that lay there. When she had it in front of her, she gently inserted the key and turned it, listening to the familiar sound of the hinges grind. At length, the lid sprang open, revealing numerous papers and photographs. All of her most treasured possessions.

A well worn letter sat on top of the pile and she took it now in her hands, her eyes skimming the contents.

'- rain again today, ceaseless as ever. I write this to you hunched in the mud with my jacket over my shoulders. The rain seems to dominate our very existence here. I find myself missing the queerest things – those which I took for granted, I suppose. I miss the colour green, of all things, as all here is brown and black. Everything here is -'

She put the letter down, and removed a photograph. The sepia tone of the photograph could not disguise the pale face of a young soldier who stared back at her, his lashes dark, his eyes serious.

The battle of the Somme – the words flicked briefly through her mind, sending a cold shudder through her body.

'You were only eighteen.... so young.' she whispered, before kissing it and gently placing it back in the box, her eyes brimming with tears. She glanced briefly at the other letters, written by a rather different hand. The hand that wrote these was rough, the writing reflecting the writer. As always, she reached to pick it up, to open it and read it, only to find that she was unable to do so. Her fingertips briefly traced over the edge of the paper, then she drew her hand away. Not yet.

Another well-worn photograph caught her attention. A tall young man, dressed in service uniform. He wore a coat that came down midway to his thighs, buckled tight. His boots tucked into his trousers. He stood tall and smiled slightly. An image floated to the surface of her mind of the same young man, but instead of holding a rifle, he had been holding a garden fork. She turned the photograph over in her hands, her eyes passing over the faded inscription on the back.

Not a pretty picture, but thought you might like it. D.S

Under the inscription was written the date.

June, 1916.

1916. The year of the Battle of the Somme. When they had -

'Miss Lennox?' a muffled knock on the door broke her attention. Hastily, she gathered up the letters and photographs into the box, and pushed it back under her bed.

A moment later she replied. 'Yes?'

The door was slowly pushed open by a young woman with red hair, dressed in the starched white garb of the servants at Misslethwaite. Mary felt her heart sink with disappointment Agnes, as always, Agnes. She entered, carrying a tray in front of her, and the smells of the dinner that was contained within it rose up to greet her. Meat stew most likely, perhaps a muffin or two.... her stomach churned with nausea.

As always, the young woman looked slightly flustered upon entering, her eyes briefly taking in the mess of papers, half burnt candles, and clumps of dirty linen that lay scattered about the room. Mary stared at her, her eyes briefly catching those of the red haired girl, and found herself inwardly pleased to find the girls eyes suddenly avoiding her own and a blush grow upon her cheeks.

'The master has sent me up some dinner for you, and your medicine, Miss.' Agnes said hurriedly, not moving forward.

'Tell Dr Craven that I am not hungry tonight.' she said quietly. 'But you can leave the medicine. Put it down by the door.'

Agnes bobbed a curtsey. 'Yes Miss. But if I may..... Dr Craven said that you must eat your dinner if you are to keep up your strength.' she paused, before adding. 'You didn't eat it last night, either.'

Agnes tripped up over her words, and her blush became darker. Mary noticed Agnes's eyes then, flicking briefly to her exposed forearms, and to the numerous scars that lay there. The day had been a warm one. Hastily, she pulled the sleeves of her dress down. Her head began to pound in earnest.

'If that would be all Agnes, I would appreciate it if you would leave me alone now. I do not like being interrupted.'

'Yes Miss, of course.' Agnes stepped back until she was standing in the doorway. She paused for a moment, and in that moment Mary saw the pity that lay in the girl's eyes – as it did with everyone who knew her – who knew what had happened.

She waited until she heard the click of the door as it closed and Agnes's footsteps echoing down the corridor before she made her way to the door to retrieve the small bottle that the young woman had left for her. She greedily snapped it up, feeling her head pounding worse than before. The liquid within glinted in the remaining sunlight, resembling the waves of a far off shore. How she longed to be there again! To feel the salt on her tongue, the calm water lapping against her legs..... his warm hands on the cool flesh of her bare skin.

She pressed her lips to the opening of the bottle and took a deep long drink of the bitter liquid, grimacing slightly as it slid down her throat as though it were poison. The effects were almost immediate. A sense of calm stole over her, followed by a feeling of deep drowsiness. The pounding of her headache subsided, as though being washed away by the tide coming in. She leant back against the bed they had shared together more than once, her mind still dwelling on the young soldier in the photograph. The draught seemed to bring her nearer to him, and she sank deep into her subconscious.

To March 1916, when it had all begun.