FFFFFFF - I'm so sorry I'm late with this. I didn't expect to get back so late! But anyway. Reviews!

Marz: Thank you! I'm glad you noticed that about the relationships between the families - as much as I love the books, I think LMM sometimes wrote a bit unrealistically about the Blythes. I don't think everyone in town would find it easy to speak to Anne, and I think it would be really hard for Una because of how shy she is, and how spirited Anne is. And of course, some people just don't click, even if they do like each other. :) I'm glad the chapter made you happy!

Guest: Oops, I always forget not everyone has The Blythes Are Quoted (although given how long it took me to get my hands on it, I really should know. I hate that I need you, Amazon Canada and your shipping prices!) I agree, Rosemary and Una are often shown to be close in temperament (and I think that maybe in canon, LMM meant to mirror Rosemary and Una's lives - with Una finding love long after Walter. But I think that's not a very good payoff when all of Una's friends have found love - at least Rosemary had Ellen, you know? But anyway). Anyway, it's good to hear your heart was (metaphorically) melted. :)

Title is from "Because the Night" by Patti Smith.

try and understand

He's dreaming about it again.

The ground is leeched of all its color, gray on the surface and then black where the shells have broken it, opened it to its core. No - not its core, exactly; Walter has read Jem's science books and he knows the core is deep within, burning even as the rain falls and men go mad from the cold and damp.

"Too damned cold," a voice comes from his right.

He jerks around and there's Burrows from the hospital, cigarette dangling from his mouth. His face is as ruined as it was when Walter last saw him, left eye pulled downward at the corner by scar tissue.

Burrows, of course, was never part of Walter's unit. The man's not even Canadian. But somehow it feels perfectly normal that he's here with him.

"I know."

"Supposed to be spring," Burrows says gruffly. "April showers, May flowers, all that. Are you going to bring your mother the first mayflowers? Jem can't, you know."

"Of course I will," Walter says, feeling vaguely insulted. How could he not? How could anyone think he doesn't care enough to do that?

Burrows raises an eyebrow. "How are you going to do that?"

Walter looks at the dead earth around them, dirt turned over and over again to make trenches and graves. Or both.

"There are flowers here," he says - uselessly, for there are none of them now. He knows they should be here, red poppies blooming in the mud, over the corpses. But they're gone now. "I don't know where they went."

"Well, you'd better hurry," Burrows says. "We're going west soon."

"I used to dream about Europe."

It's late afternoon, almost turning to evening, long shadows stretching across the veranda, the world turned golden by sunset. Walter still can't quite feel his old thrill - only an odd pang. But it's better than the numbness.

Una is next to him, her yarn and knitting needles in her lap. There's something soothing, Walter finds, in the clicking of the needles. Sometimes Una hisses in annoyance - or the closest thing to it, for Una has never seemed annoyed at anything - when she forgets to purl or when the yarn gets knotted, and there's something comforting about that too. She is quiet but not silent, and Walter is grateful. Silence only reminds him of those men who will never speak again.

She is not knitting now, though. Now, she is turned towards him, listening.

"Where?" she asks.

Walter allows himself an indulgent smile at the old memory. "Anywhere. The old cities - the poetry - you've seen pictures of Venice. Rilla and I used to talk about it - Di and I were going to see Paris."

Una's mouth quirks slightly, but then the smile falls away. "You don't dream about it anymore."

"Not in the same way."

Una accepts this answer the way she does everything else he tells her. He wonders if there's anything he could do or say that would surprise her - no, he knows there are things he could tell her that would make her jaw drop, make her gasp and weep. But he won't. Una seems willing to share some of his burdens, but there are some things that Walter has decided he will never speak of. Not ever.

"It always looked lovely in the pictures," Una says. Her voice is soft and hesitant, as though she's afraid of offering up her opinion. "But - I never really thought of going there."

This does surprise him. All of them - the Merediths and Blythes and Fords - had always spoken of seeing the world. Some of them - like Walter - only meant for a vacation, but others - like Jem - meant to go away for life. Had Una really been absent from those discussions? He feels like he is always being reminded about how little he really knows of her.

"Why not?"

She shrugs, picks at the yarn in her lap. "It's - different." She pauses, and then gives a little sigh. "I suppose it takes me time to - become accustomed to places. I don't like to be uprooted. Even temporarily." She peeks at him shyly. "I know it's not reasonable."

"No," Walter says slowly. "I suppose - I understand." He doesn't quite, not really, but he doesn't want to tell her that. "But it could be worthwhile. Europe is - was - lovely." He shakes his head. "You should see it now - no, you shouldn't. It's not beautiful, Una."

"Not even the cities?"

"I suppose the cities are the same," he says. "London was - before we were sent to France - but the land…" He shivers. "We destroyed it, Una."

"Not you," Una says quietly. "Don't say that."

"No," he says. "I was there. Don't - I won't deny it. Perhaps it was some Belgian children's Rainbow Valley that we tore up." He looks away. "When I arrived, I remember - everything was gray. Or brown. No grass, no flowers. And we dug up the ground and - filled it with shells - and bodies. Nothing is alive there, Una." Maybe not even us. "You can't imagine."

"No," she agrees. "I can't." She presses her lips together. "But - things grow back. Not the same - but it won't be that way forever. Things survive." She doesn't look at him. "People survive. Like you."

The last part comes out so quietly that Walter almost doesn't hear it.

France is different, now.

He is barefoot this time, and the fields of Courcelette stretch out and away from him, rippling with tiny hills. Above him is only sky, no barbed wire or sandbags, guns pointed at the ready. The grass beneath his feet is as green as the grass on the lawn of Ingleside, and still damp - but with dew, not with mud.

He takes a step and nearly trips. When he looks down, he realizes - these are no hills. They are shell craters, grown over with grass and flowers, but still pressed into the earth all the same.

Are you going to bring your mother the first mayflowers?

Of course. He'd almost forgotten. For they're growing here, somehow, blooming alongside the poppies.

"The best ones are over here."

He turns and there is Una. She looks different, and Walter realizes that her hair is down, falling over her shoulders to her waist. She leans down and picks one of the flowers, twirls it between her pale fingers.

"I told you things survive," she says. It's a very un-Una-like thing to say. She never brags, never reminds anyone of their mistakes. But somehow that doesn't occur to him, not here.

"So you did."

"There are more over here," Una says, starting to walk. The words stick in Walter's throat - this is no-man's-land, it's dangerous. She's not even wearing a uniform - in fact, she is not even Una. Now it is Rilla walking ahead of him, now Di. He can't tell anymore.

But then, it turns out not to matter. The sound of the shell exploding is deafening, and rings in his ears even after he wakes up.

Dear Walter,

I'm sorry I didn't write sooner once I got back. Busy as always, so on, so forth. I shan't bore you with all the details of my daily routine - there isn't much to tell in any case. So I'll get straight to the point: there's a nice long weekend coming up, and I thought it would be nice if you were to visit. I wasn't in the best mood when we parted, and - it would be nice to be jolly with you. And it would be a change of scenery from the Glen. I know Redmond wasn't - the nicest place before you went away, but it's different now. It's mostly us girls around here, anyway. You remember Alice Parker, don't you? She says she hasn't heard from you in a while. You could come catch up.

I don't mean to force you to Kingsport! But I miss you, as does Nan. Do think about it.

Love,
Di

"I suppose things were easier when Mother was alive. Faith doesn't remember - I think she recalls even less than I do. And Jerry doesn't like to talk about it."

They seem to almost be taking turns sometimes, sharing their stories one by one, trading their burdens for the other's. Una insists that Walter needs to talk more than she does, but Walter finds himself oddly interested in her stories. Una has no gift with words, and sometimes she holds back as though she's afraid of telling the whole story. But Walter has long been able to read between lines, figure out the truth underneath.

"None of you do," Walter points out. It's the truth - the Merediths spoke only of her passing, that first day they met in Rainbow Valley. A litany of tales about their Aunt Martha's cooking after the fact, the occasional anecdote that, their ages considered, must have taken place while Cecilia Meredith was still alive - but never really about her. Perhaps Faith speaks of it to Jem, or Jerry to Nan. Or Carl to Rilla, Walter hastily adds on. He and Una are not quite in the same category as the former two.

Una shrugs. "It's - how can I say this? Everything was different after she died. But I don't really remember much - about how it was before. Just little things. Her laugh. The way she'd comfort us when people were unkind at school. We used to pick flowers together, sometimes."

"That's - " Walter starts, but finds he doesn't know what to say. He wants to tell her that those are good things to remember, that her mother sounded lovely, that he doesn't know what he would've done if it had been his own mother.

Una does not seem to expect a response. "That's all, I suppose. It's - I know it's silly."

Walter blinks. "Not at all."

Una shrugs. "I just - I think about it too much - about things I don't have. Or things I lose."

"Not just your mother."

Una looks him in the eye. "No."

The strangest jolt goes through him - he's not quite sure what she means, but he thinks some part of him must know, for somehow there is the sensation of butterflies in his stomach, chills over his skin.

He tries to shake it away, but it won't quite leave. "I never knew," he says. "And I don't think it's silly. In fact, I think - I think you're quite strong."

Una's eyes widen, and for a moment Walter sees something other than wistfulness in her eyes. It slips away before he can catch it, but he knows he's seen it. Perhaps it was something grateful, the appreciation of a friend. She moves closer, ever so slightly, and then slips her hand into his. Walter blinks in surprise at the contact. He has not held hands with her since they were children. Her fingers are cold, the tips surprisingly rough. Like his are, now. Without thinking, his fingers curl around hers.