Author's Note: Thank you all for the comments, the reviews, the PMs. THANK YOU! Now, this next segment of the story has been betaed by my very best friend, the sister of my soul, Irene. She was my Beta, super beta, beta extraordinaire. Deus te pague, amor! Also, you'll realize that I have taken yet one more fictional liberty. In the final chapter- as right below- you'll see a quotation from Dylan Thomas, a great Welsh bloke that I love with a passion. Given the fact that he was born in 1914, he couldn't possibly have written "And death shall have no dominion" in time for this historic setting. But somehow, only this made sense! Anyhow, enjoy and keep those comments comming!

Jane

American Civil War- 1870

"Though lovers be lost love is not

And death shall have no dominion."

Dylan Thomas

Chapter 2.1- Road to absolution

The air was crisp and clean. There was a smell of autumn in the air- the trees were starting to loose their leaves to the soft wind that blew in the morning. Carpets of dried leaves softened the steps of the two figures walking down the road in South Carolina. A man in a tattered Union uniform and a boy in his early teens projected a soft shadow on the road behind them. The soldier walked with a cane in his right hand, the other propped on the boy's shoulder, lightly, despite the weariness and physical exhaustion that was all too visible in the man. The blindness made the painting-like beauty of the scenery wasted on the soldier. But the sounds of the birds saying goodbye to the summer, the smells of the ripe fruits and the corn rotting away in the fields were not. He had started noticing things he didn't use to. The songs seemed sweeter, the smells more pungent, the world suddenly alive and more intense than it used to be when he could see. Seeley Booth's heart ached for the carefree time before the war when he'd be awake to greet the morning, his heart restless for something not even he knew what was. He used to settle for the spectacle dawn put on, bringing his farm to life each day. Now all he had was the memory and four other senses, each and every one of them reminding him of how big, how glorious, how beautiful and how painful the world was. Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania seemed to be a whole life time way. Too many dead and broken men away. He often wondered if there was any going back for him, if there would be absolution to what he'd done. He was a man of deep moral sense, and fighting seemed logical, reasonable, justifiable. At stake were higher values, the good of many out weighed the demise of some. Now, after the war only the pain and the loss of wasted lives and senseless carnage remained. War could be necessary, but that didn't make it any less painful , or the dead any less dead. Or, come to think of it, his guilt any smaller.

He'd been on the road for nearly six months, now, making penance for his sins. He knew there was little he could do in the way of giving back the lives he'd taken on the line of duty. But he could meet the families of the enemy, of the men he'd killed and give them what closure he could. For the last six months he had personally taken letters that confederate soldiers had entrusted to him in their final days when he'd been their jailer. He'd been received in some houses with harsh words or shotguns pointing at his head; in others he'd been received as a brother by people who knew that already too much, too many had been lost. Human nature was just like that. Sometimes people found the wisdom to forgive. Other times only the pain and the hate remained the last refuge for those who had lost hope, pride and their loved ones.

He carried in his breast pocket the last of the letters. He was heading to Greenville, South Carolina where he expected to deliver his final letter before his task was complete. Finality for him would come through someone else's heartache. He had also to consider the boy travelling with him. He needed to get him safely to the North. Each day they travelled together was a day spent in fear. If it was the last thing he'd do, he'd get the boy a home. Then he'd retire to his farm and try to make his peace with life and God.

They were travelling in companionable silence when the boy saw a mile marker with the name of the town in it. He tried to reading it. He'd been taught to read by his blind travelling companion, who had drawn the letters for him in the sand. Paper was a scarce commodity. It never ceased to amaze the boy that he, a half white for the Yankees, a half negro for the southerners, had managed to learn to read. From a blind man. A blind Yankee. Life was, he knew at only thirteen, full of little jokes.

When he got stuck, he spelled all the letters out loud. G-R-E-E-N-V-I-L-L-E. His companion sighed.

"That'd be the one. How far?"

"Five miles"

We better get going, then"

It was always that same feeling in the pit of his stomach. The dread of the unknown reaction to his uniformed presence at the door. He could not read faces nor gestures. He had to trust a boy who had seen precious little of life to know a person before any words were spoken. He felt truly helpless, truly in the dark, despite the little flashes of light that still percolated in his eyes.

When the boy stopped, he brushed his uniform off the road dust, straightened his cap and rubbed some colour into his face. The road to absolution was not an easy path. He cleared his throat.

"I'm ready".

The boy yelled from the fence.

"Yo of the house!" It was a juvenile voice, still innocent. "Anyone there?"

"How does it look like, son…the house?"
"It looks like all the others, Sir… It needs a man to work it and a coat of paint… looks old, I guess…"

"Call again!" His voice broke just a notch, the same old anticipation of bringing pain into a house that needed no more of it.

"Yo! Anyone there?"

A little boy appeared from behind the house, running towards the front gate. He was breathless but had a wide smile in his face. The two top front teeth were missing.

"Hi" he said coming to an abrupt stop a few feet from the fence. He took in the unlikely duo, the man with a cane and a cloth covering his eyes, tall as the giant from the bean stalker his mother had told him about, the old uniform in need of mending and a boy with huge black eyes and dimples on a face that seemed to smile despite the seriousness impressed on it.

"Hello!" the man replied. "We are looking for Mrs Sullivan. Do you know where we can find her?" He tried to smile reassuringly, but was not exactly sure of the result.

"That's my mummy, Mrs Sullivan. I'm Mr Sullivan. Can I touch you hat?" The little one was cute as button and it reassured the boy somewhat. The playful tone had the same effect on the man.

"Sure" and the hat was transferred to the young hands of Mr Sullivan. "And is your mummy in, Mr Sullivan?"

"She sure is!" The little one replied with a little delighted giggle. "Mummy!" He yelled towards the house and turned his attention back towards the young boy accompanying the soldier. "What is that?" He asked pointing at an instrument hanging from a pouch in the boy's waist.

"It's a fife!" and he took out the instrument to demonstrate, playing a little tune. Young Mr Sullivan clapped his hands enthusiastically.

"Parker!" The word sounded alarmed in the rasp feminine voice. Not quite a shout, but urgent nonetheless. Oh God, here we go! The soldier thought. He could hear a rustle of long skirts approaching. He'd always preferred to introduce himself to women as they were naturally less prone to violence than men. Especially here down South.

"They're looking for you, mummy. They're looking for Mrs Sullivan" And the boy stopped fidgeting with one single look at his mother.

"Are they now? Go inside, Parker" Her voice sounded tense as a violin string. As soon as Parker was out of earshot, the sound of the barrel of a pistol clicking into position ignited the afternoon with fear, sending birds flying in a storm of feathers.

"I'm Mrs Sullivan. Mrs Temperance Sullivan. And what do you want from here?" Corporal Booth did not need the boy's signal to tell him he had a gun held to his head.