Mary asks Dr. Warren every day when they can get Matthew out of bed, because she can tell he is getting anxious and bored being stuck there. She too is getting tired of his hospital room, although she is loath to leave it.

Finally, several days after Matthew wakes, up, Dr. Warren permits her to take him out, in a wheelchair. His leg is still splinted and not as secure, and looking at him, Mary isn't certain he could support himself anyway. He looks so weak, so thin, and the infection has taken a lot out of him.

Whatever the circumstances, Matthew is delighted to leave the hospital room. It is too cold to go out to the courtyard, but Mary pushes him around the corridors until they find an empty day room.

As she pushes him down the hallway, Mary reflects that she will likely remember this date forever. And not simply for Matthew's sake.

She pushes the chair right next to a seat in the day room, and smiles at him. "How are you feeling?"

"Still weak," he says, softly. "But better for being up."

She pats his hand. "I'm glad."

He looks at her intently, sensing hesitance. "You have something to tell me."

"Yes, I do, and I'm hoping it's good news for you," she says. She now takes his hand in hers and squeezes it. "The war is over, Matthew. It ended today, at 11 o'clock."

His eyes widen, and they are so blue, so bright. He stares at her for a second, and then looks away, processing. He doesn't let go of her hand. "It's... over."

"We won, Matthew. It's done."

He tries to smile, but there are tears in his eyes. "Did we win? So many men dead and injured, and just utterly broken."

"And that's finished now. No one else will be broken by it," Mary consoles.

He blinks, turning away from her and then back to her quickly. He swallows heavily, his eyes getting blearier by the minute. "It's just..." he chokes out the words, "I don't think there were any winners in this war. It was stupid and pointless and so many people died for no real reason, and no one is satisfied, and it should never have happened in the first place."

"But aren't you glad it's over?" Mary asks. She is concerned that bringing this up will cause him a setback.

He is staring at his feet now. "Of course I am. But I hate that it happened. And it's not really over, not for me anyway."

She frowns. "It will fade, with time."

His eyes snap back to hers and she takes in a breath at how icy they turn in an instant. "How can you know?"

"I don't, but trust me, I'm going to do my best to make it go away."

"Alas, we are only humans. Wars like this spiral out of our control quickly, and the only way to resolve them is to realize the pointlessness of the death and destruction."

Mary presses her lips together and gets closer to the edge of the seat. Anything to be closer to him when he needs her. "We did, eventually. It's over now, and no one else will get hurt by it. And you're home, and you're safe, and you're loved, Matthew. Everyone back at home was so concerned for you, when I wrote of your infection. Your mother and I could barely leave your side. You're so loved, and we're all so glad you're still here."

"Did you..." his voice catches, "write to them about the other thing..."

She closes her eyes. "No. They don't need to know."

"Thank you," he says.

"No one but your mother and I know, and we can keep it that way, if you prefer," Mary informs him, her voice so soft.

"I would."

She squeezes his hand. "But if you ever feel like you need to talk about it, I'm here for you."

He pauses and bites his lip, staring at his feet. Finally, he looks up, but he doesn't quite meet her eyes. "I hate that I tried, Mary, I really do. I don't know if I can even explain why I tried, because my mind is such a muddle of so many things that I had no control over but everything felt so bleak, and death felt like the only reasonable escape, and I figured it was only fair that I die considering all the men I've killed... they were haunting me, Mary. And I was afraid, so afraid of what else my mind might haunt me with. And the future looked so bleak, too, looking forward to a life where I could not get the war out of my head and a painful injury that will never fully heal and... I'm still scared. I'm so afraid of the future. But I can't imagine it now, how I could do that to you and Mother. When you knocked, I thought about pulling the trigger and getting it over with, but thank God you didn't give me time to decide. You saved my life, Mary, and I think you save it every day."

Mary has to fight to keep from tearing up. "I'm... so glad you're starting to see your worth."

He shakes his head and tries to smile, but there are tears coming to his eyes too. "It's hard, I won't lie. I'm sure there will be days again where I think I might have been better off if I had been left to die. I know there's moments where I think it, but there's also moments where I realize how beautiful something is, or... how much I'm loved, and then I know it's worth it. And with you by my side, I think I can make it."

There is silence between them, as Mary doesn't really know what to say. She is glad, so desperately glad, that things are looking up for him, even if in the smallest way.

Eventually, he looks at her straight on again, and those eyes, those blue, blue eyes pierce into her. "Did you... say you loved me? That wasn't a fever dream, was it?"

Mary almost laughs, his question is so innocent, so hopeful, so afraid. "Of course I said it. And you said it too."

"Really?" he says, and there's a genuine smile on his face. "I thought I had dreamt it, that was just too perfect, because I had wished you would say that for years, and now... you actually said it."

"Remember though, we weren't going to tell your mother. Or else I probably wouldn't be able to keep the door between our rooms open," she says softly, in a childish whisper. This is exciting, hiding such a lovely secret.

He is almost giddy with excitement, but his face slowly begins to fall. "I just wish... God Mary, I wish I could be better for you. You can't possibly... want to be with me like this..."

"Could you possibly want to be with me? I'm damaged goods," Mary says. "The whole world knows it too."

He shakes his head vehemently. "No. You're not. I certainly could be considered damaged goods though, considering my ability to function has been fairly impaired by this shellshock. Who knows what I'll be able to go back to..."

"You've hardly been back three months," Mary says.

"That's a long time."

"You're still transitioning," she insists, "and it's getting better, isn't it?"

He frowns. "I'm not sure why you think trying to kill myself is 'getting better'. Because that's about where I was at. Now... I'm not sure, but I've been out of it for a week so I'm only now getting what little bearings I had back. Are you and Mother going to insists that someone is with me at all times, so I don't slip again? I heard you talking about it."

"Maybe. I don't think we'll be comfortable leaving you totally alone, although we'll give you privacy, if you need it."

"I don't think I want privacy, at least not during the nights. I sleep so much better with you by my side."

Mary clasps both his hands in hers. "Then I will stay by your side, as much as I can, if that brings you peace."

"I can't believe you love me," he says, changing the topic quickly. "When I asked, I was sure you would laugh at me and think it was absolutely hysterical in the saddest possible way that I could possibly think you were in love with me. I was sure it was a dream that I was mistaking for reality. But now..."

She leans forward and kisses him. "Believe it," she says.

He melts into the kiss, enjoying the touch of her lips on his, aching for more. But they must pull apart for air, and then, he is afraid to go back for more. It is like a dream, the only good dream he has had for months and months on end. And he doesn't want this dream to end. He fears that he will wake up again, just as broken and desperate and anxious and unlovable.

He still feels unlovable.

How could she love this broken shell of a man, who has given nothing to her but heartbreak?

But then he remembers the feeling of her lips.

He rests his weary head on her shoulder. "I do, now." There is a pause, a gentle, peaceful, silence. "Did you come up here for me? I know you said..."

"I said I came here because of Pamuk, and that was true... is true. I mean, at least it's partially true. And I wanted to think that was the sole reason. But somewhere, subconsciously for me, it was always you."

He wants to kiss her again, but someone else comes into the day room, an older woman wheeling in another broken soldier. Their privacy is gone. They nod to the other people, and Mary takes a serious look at Matthew.

"You look tired. Let's get you back to bed," she says firmly. The spell seems to be broken.

He wants to protest, since he's been so tired of laying in bed for nearly two weeks, but he has to admit, he is tired. So he acquiesces, as it's not like he has much of a choice anyway, and he leans back into the chair as Mary brings him back to his room.

Once he is back, comfortable in bed, he reaches for her hand again. "I want to get out of here, so we can be alone again. And I'm sick and tired of being here."

"I know," she replies. "You can come back home soon."

He closes his eyes, leaning back against the pillows. "Is home here?"

"Home is wherever my family is."

His eyes still closed, he smiles softly.

Isobel comes back to the room to find a sleeping Matthew, with Mary sitting by his bedside. She puts a hand on Mary's shoulder. "You should go back to the house for a little while," she says gently. "You've barely left."

"He needs me," Mary replies, not taking her eyes off Matthew.

Isobel presses her lips together, but a smile plays at the edges. "He'll be alright without you for a few hours. Go back, take a bath, and enjoy being out of here for a little while. Maybe you should stay overnight and get some real sleep, but I doubt you will."

"I doubt it too," Mary says, but she reluctantly stands up and makes to leave.

"Did you tell him?" Isobel asks, as Mary gathers her things. "About the end of the war?"

"Yes."

"How did he take it?"

Mary can't look at him or Isobel. She stares at the chair in the hospital room, frowning. "He took it alright, I think. He's glad it's over, but he was becoming bitter about it happening. He opened up a little bit about... what happened before." She still has to use a euphemism, the fear of Matthew's attempt on his life too fresh. "He talked about how bleak everything was for him. He says it's not all better yet, but he has reasons to live now."

"What are those reasons?" Isobel asks.

Mary freezes. Letting Isobel know will result in constant chaperoning of her interactions with Matthew, something neither of them want. "He didn't say, really. But he seemed quite convinced he had them, so that's certainly a good thing."

Isobel nods, and takes the chair next to Matthew's bedside. "I'm presuming he doesn't want to tell the doctor? About what happened?"

"No." Mary shakes her head. "I told him it was just between us, that no one else has to know. He seemed pleased with that arrangement."

"We'll keep it that way then. No need for more people to be prodding at him when I'm sure we're bad enough," Isobel says, trying to lighten the painful nature of the past few weeks. The past few months, really. Everything since Matthew came back from the front has been difficult. But Isobel glances at her son, lying relatively peacefully on the bed, and she is so grateful that he's here with her. "Go on then," she says, waving Mary out. "The sooner you get back the more you can relax."

"I'm certain I won't relax until I'm back here, but I will take your advice. Thank you, Isobel."

Isobel watched the door as she leaves, quickly turning her eyes back to her sleeping son. He looks so peaceful, none of the struggles that have plagued the last few months crowning his brow. She is glad, so glad, that his sleep at the moment is without nightmares. She knows she may have to wake him soon, but for the moment, he is alright.

She takes out a newspaper and reads the front page article yet again. The war is over. This horrific war, that has taken so many men and ruined so many more, this awful war that nearly took her darling boy. It is done with, it will not hurt another young boy.

But it will keep hurting Matthew.

This causes a bitter bile to rise in her throat, but she swallows. Matthew is here, alive, and healing, and that is enough. She must console herself again.

She reads the article again.

It is over. That is enough.

Her prediction is correct and Matthew is soon in need of rousing. He fights against the covers, writhing and twisting and calling out for someone. William, like it usually is? No, she can't quite make out the name. She pauses for a second, trying to make it out.

Mary.

He is calling for Mary.

Her heart clenches. It is good that he has found support in Mary, and yet it is strange to her that Mary is the name on his lips.

But she cannot think of that now. Instead, she must wake him and take him out of his nightmare.

She talks softly to him, squeezes his hand, and brushes hair off of his forehand with her other hand. "Darling, wake up. You're here. You're alive. Wake up."

She does this for several minutes, feeling him writhe even more under her touch, trying to get away from her. It concerns her, but she cannot allow it to. So she holds his hand firmly, and keeps talking to him, hoping to tear him away from his painful seeming nightmare.

Finally, he wakes with a start, breathing heavily, a sweat beginning to break out on his forehead. His eyes dart around wildly until they finally manage to focus on his mother above him.

Isobel presses her lips together. Clearly he is not free of the war, and she is starting to doubt that he will ever be completely free.

"I was..." he begins, his jaw working, the sweat beading across his face.

"Shh," Isobel says. "You're alright, it was just a bad dream. You're still in the hospital in Scotland, but I think in a few days we should be able to bring you home."

It takes him a few minutes to process everything, but eventually he gets himself together enough to respond to her. "When could I be able to go home?"

"Dr. Warren thinks in two or three days, probably. He's arranged an x-ray tomorrow to see if your leg is healed enough to start taking some of your weight. It's been three months since you came back from the front, you know."

Has it really, he wonders. This is so unbelievable to him, since time seems to both come so quickly and so slowly. It seems just days ago when he was out on the battlefield, but at the same time, the days drag by slowly, and the long, fear-filled nights are not much better. He has been back for three months and he is still a wreck. It's hard to see much room for improvement. But he steels himself; hope is good. Hope will keep him alive, he thinks. And if he doesn't have much hope, at least he has Mary.

"If it's healed," Isobel continues, once she senses that Matthew is listening, "they'll start you on a few sessions of physical therapy to get you back on your feet. It will take a little while for it to get more comfortable to walk on, but you should be able to eventually."

"So I'll just be somewhat crippled," Matthew mutters bitterly.

"We don't know that, Matthew," Isobel protests.

He frowns. "You do. You're just trying to hide it from me."

"We don't know if it will have healed well, but we also don't know that it healed badly. You can afford to have a little bit of hope."

Matthew's icy eyes meet hers and his stare is disconcerting. "Every bit of hope I somehow still have left in me is being used up to keep my will to live going, and to try and believe that someday the war will leave me. And even that isn't doing too much for me."

Isobel sighs and pats his hand. "It's been very hard for you. And you've been very brave."

"Even though I tried to take the coward's way out?" he asks bitterly.

"You are not a coward, Matthew. This is not an easy thing that you're dealing with, lesser men would be far more cowed than you are."

"If I wasn't a coward, then I wouldn't have this damn shellshock in the first place!" he says, raising his voice. Isobel tries to calm him.

"That's not true, Matthew. Many brave men have been troubled in the same way, it is not a slight on your character nor your bravery. It is just an effect of this terrible, terrible war, just as your leg injury was another awful effect."

He turns away from her, clearly not believing her.

"It's a shame, really, that the mental effects of the war are regarded as cowardice when oftentimes they cannot be helped. I saw it in the Boer war and I see it now. Of course, it is difficult to change society's views on such things, but I believe it should change, especially now that so many men, through no fault or flaw of their own, are suffering from shellshock," Isobel continues.

"Are you saying we should not be held responsible for our actions?" he murmurs. "Because they are apparently out of our control? Should I not be held responsible for hitting Lavinia? Or threatening Dr. Warren? Or... trying to kill myself? Those are all manifestations of my condition, and yet they are real, harmful issues that hurt other people and that I should be held responsible for."

"It is a paradoxical thing," Isobel replies. "And in a way, you are held responsible for those things. You face the natural consequences of such things. Generally outside consequences shouldn't be imposed since the natural consequences are enough. I know you are held responsible for those things, Matthew, because you hold yourself responsible. And that also lets me know that you're still in there, still the same duty bound little boy I raised. So I don't feel the need to impose other consequences on you. All of these things you have done are because you are shellshocked, and while yes, you are responsible for them, because you are taking full responsibility for them and not blaming them on your condition, which would be reasonable to do, I know that it's not really you doing those things. So while I hold you responsible, I know you hold yourself even more responsible, and that allows me to have sympathy for you."

He looks at her blankly, as if not totally comprehending what she says. Maybe he doesn't, because her speech is a mess of moral dribble that he can't understand without paining himself. But he can see the love in her eyes and knows that, even if what she says sounds strange to him, she's probably right and what's more, she loves him. And that's the most valuable thing to Matthew.

He may hate himself, but between Mary and his mother, he is loved.

He is so loved, so much more that he deserves, and he shivers at the thought of it. How could he think of hurting them the way he could have if he had gone through with it?

This makes him begin to hate himself even more, but he tries to pull himself back. If he can't be bothered to live for himself, he can at least live for them.

He remembers how selfless he used to try to be, how noble, how honorable. But was it ever really selfless, or was it his need to be morally superior? He never had all that much that set him apart, except for that.

And now, that is all gone. He is selfish, awful, a murderer, really. The war has brought him so far away from what he used to believe he was, and it is terrifying. He is a monster, torn up by the war. But he cannot blame what he does on the war.

It is his human nature that leads him to hurt others the way he has. The war just made his nature impossible to resist.

Was he really a terrible person beforehand, hiding under a veneer of honor and nobility? Did he really feel any remorse on the battlefield? No, he killed men without questioning it. How could he have? He didn't care then. He still doesn't think of them much now.

Did the war just bring out what was lurking below the surface of his personality?

This thought bothers him far more than he has ever admitted to anyone, because he has always prided himself on being a good person. He has always desired to be considered good by others.

But was he ever really the good man he esteemed himself to be?

What is the alternative though? He might have been good in the first place, but now he lost his very character in the war? That alternative is not much better.

He doesn't want to bring it up. He knows his mother will reassure him that he is still a good, honorable man, but he doesn't care for listening to things he doesn't believe. He has killed without remorse, hurt people he loves, threatened people he doesn't, and almost gave those he loves the most devastating shock of their lives. How could he do that to them?

He would be better off dead, really, and they'd all do better without him, but at the same time, he couldn't do that to them. Not when they love him so fiercely.

This isn't just about the flashbacks, the fear, the confusion, the anger. This is about who he used to be, and who he has become. That scares him almost more than the memories of the war. He hates who he has become.

"Mother," he asks, finally, his voice weak.

"Yes?" she responds, and the love is still filling her eyes. How can she love him so much?

"Was I ever really a good man? I know I'm not now, but was I ever really a decent, kind man? Sometimes I think I was just pretending, and then the war stripped away everything from me and there was nothing left but the real man inside, who isn't nearly so pleasant or kind of good."

Isobel sighs, that sad sigh that he's heard so much whenever the things that the war has done to him are brought up. "How could you believe that you're still not a good man? What makes you think that the war has changed you that irrevocably."

"You've heard what I've said. You've seen what I've done. I've hurt so many people, mother, and I almost completely devastated you. I have no regard anymore for anyone but myself, it seems, and I cannot hide everything I've done, and I hate myself for what I've done and who I've become. And you've said you do hold me responsible for all of it. So I'm not sure if I've become this or if I always was like this, and I just managed to hide it until now."

Isobel reaches out and holds his hand in hers. "Matthew, the very fact that you're so worried about this proves to me that you are a good man, because you want to be a good man. There's nothing natural about it, you work at it and perhaps right now it might be harder, there are more obstacles in your way, but you will get past them and you will continue being the good, honorable man you always have been."

He stares at her, sadly. "You might be right, you usually are. I just wish I could believe it."

Thanks so much for reading! Also, shoutout to my wonderful friends galindadaae and klarinette49 for betaing every chapter of this story and making sure nothing is weird or out of character or totally incorrect- this story would probably be far inferior without them. Thanks again, and if you could drop a review that would make a very happy (and much more productive) writer!