more walter and una. other characters? what other characters?

(title is a lyric from the song "momentum" by vienna teng.)


four

i map the words out, maybe you will say them

Walter waits until Rainbow Valley is empty before he begins to write. He has never been particularly shy about his poetry, but this is - different. He scratches out his ode to Rosamond - a girl with hair of gold and eyes of blue - of course the real Rosamond has brown eyes, but Walter is careful not to put in too many references to Faith Meredith. He thinks, with a reference to blue eyes and perhaps a comparison to flowers (if it isn't too cliché), maybe if the poem is published and - God forbid - Jem reads it, he will assume it is about Alice Parker, or some other girl Walter knows.

He wonders if it is a betrayal of Jem to be writing poetry about Faith - and if it is a betrayal of his poetic ideals to disguise the subject of his prose in this way. But no, he decides. As important as his lofty ideals are to him, he will not hurt Jem.

For a long while there is only the whistle of the wind through the trees and the scratching of his pen as he writes his poem to the girl who will never be his. He's not really even sure why he continues to worship Faith from afar - he knows she and Jem are meant to be together. He thinks perhaps that he has held on to his infatuation with her for so long that it would feel strange to let it go, irrational as it is.

He is so lost in his thoughts and his poetry that he doesn't hear the crunch of leaves as someone approaches. In fact, he doesn't notice the other presence at all until she sits down next to him, her skirt grazing his knees.

"Una!" He jumps, startled, and quickly flips to a blank page. Una has never seen his poems, and he certainly doesn't want her seeing his sonnet to her sister as an introduction. Walter somehow feels wholly uncomfortable with Una reading his love sonnets, though he is not sure why.

She smiles shyly. "Did I bother you?"

He has to smile at that. Typical Una - her first thought is always about others, never herself.

"Not at all," he says. "I was writing, but - I'm having a bit of a block."

That is a lie. He had been writing rapidly, line after line after line. But he doesn't want to hurt Una's feelings.

"Oh," she says. "What were you writing about?"

Your sister and my traitorous unrequited love for her. "I was trying to capture autumn," he says. "The essence of it." He had, in fact, already finished his poem about the season of change, but since it isn't a complete fabrication, he feels less guilty.

"I wish I could help," she tells him simply. Walter appreciates that. Most of his family - even Mother, as much as she understands almost everything - would have tried to suggest things to write about. Una would never do such a thing, but still he can feel her support, quiet and steadfast.

"I suppose in cases like this, it's best to stop thinking about it for a while," he says. "So you came along at the right time." He's still going along with his made-up story, but in truth, he does feel a little better, not thinking about Faith so much. The best poetry may come from tragic situations, but it can be exhausting.

Una doesn't say anything, only blushes - as she does in response to even the slightest compliment - and looks down, playing with a stray thread on her sleeve. A loose strand of hair slips forward and - perhaps it is the late afternoon light, or the way the hair frames her face, but for a moment Una Meredith looks beautiful.

Not that she isn't - in her own way. Walter would never dream of calling his childhood friend ugly. But she's not Faith. No one would ever write a sonnet dedicated to Una Meredith. Would they?

Walter looks at her sideways. What would a poem about Una say? She does not have the requisite hair of gold, though she does have eyes of blue. There is nothing amiss about her face, though there is nothing striking about it either. (Walter will not permit himself to think about her figure.) She is small and pale and altogether rather unremarkable, lacking the liveliness or intelligence of her siblings and friends. No, he supposes he could never write an ode to her beauty.

But he could write about other things, couldn't he? About the way she always seems to know the right thing to say, and the way she bites her lip when she's nervous. The way she never complains, never thinks of herself first. The way her hand used to fit into his when they were younger and holding hands was an innocent thing.

The way she's staring at him now.

"Walter?" she asks. "Are you all right?"

He blinks out of his reverie. "I was wondering what I would say, if I were to write a poem about you," he tells her.

For Walter, it is a simple statement, said without a second thought, devoid of any romantic feeling. (For Una, it is a horrible, quiet shock - she feels it throughout her system but doesn't move, scared to give herself away.) For a moment, Walter thinks he can see something in her face - Una's inability to put her thoughts into words is compensated by the expressiveness of her features, if she chooses to show her feelings. But whatever it was, she hides it well, and soon she is impassive.

"You don't need to do that," she says quietly, breaking eye contact and looking down. (It would hurt too much, if he tried to write about her and had nothing to say.)

"But I will," he says. "One day."

She looks at him shyly, a small smile on her face, hands tugging at her sleeves. "Will I get to read it?" she asks. If it were anyone else, Walter thinks, the question would sound coy. But it is Una, and she is always sincere.

"Of course."

They sit, then, in comfortable silence, the wind blowing around them. Next to him, Una's hair is coming loose from her braid, long strands streaming away from her face. She has pulled her sleeves down to cover her hands, pale fingers curled around dark fabric. The maple leaves settle around her, catching at her clothes and hair. The beauty of the image does not overcome Walter in the way of Faith or Alice Parker - rather, it creeps under his skin, curls around him so familiarly that he doesn't even notice its presence.

Later that night, Walter sits at his desk and tries to turn his thoughts back to Faith, to Rosamond, but instead finds himself thinking up lines about orange leaves against dark hair, and a soft smile.

(He's not sure why he cannot stop thinking of that image, so he goes to sleep and lets the inspiration slip away in his dreams. When he wakes up, he finishes the second sonnet in sequence and daydreams of the girl with blonde hair and brown eyes, and everything is as normal, if only he could shake the nagging feeling that he is forgetting someone.)