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France, 1918.

Dickon crouched deeper into the roughly dug indent in the trench wall, trying in vain to keep out of the rain. It was a futile effort; the rain penetrated everything here, in a vicious, dispiriting sort of way completely unlike the gentle rains of Yorkshire. Or at least how he remembered it, at any rate. As the war dragged on Dickon was finding it harder and harder to believe there was really such a place as Yorkshire. His memories of it felt hazy, as though they were taken from someone else's life. All that seemed real now was the trench, and the endless miles of waste and destruction.

Pushing away these miserable thoughts, he pulled out a lump of wood and his penknife and began to whittle, something, anything to keep his hands busy, to take his mind off the nightmare he was living.

"D'you hear the news?" Dent was slumped against the wall across from him, his waterproof slung over his head while he smoked a cigarette. Dickon didn't look up.

"No."

"New recruits," grunted Dent. "Reinforcements." He spat into the mud, a gesture Dickon had become more than familiar with in their time together.

"Ah." He didn't bother wondering who they would be – over a year at war had taught him that the chances of living long enough to make friends with anyone was slim. He had learnt that lesson the hard way, with Liam; Liam whose image still haunted him, gurgling blood and crying for his mother as he stumbled blind through no-man's land. The memory brought an acidic taste to Dickon's mouth, and he swallowed it back with bitterness.

"There's another Sowerby comin'," said Dent, offhand.

Dickon froze, before shaking his head. "Can' be from us. None o' me siblin's are old enough." Even as he spoke, he thought of his brother Phil. Phil who would be seventeen now, the same age as Colin. Phil who had always fancied himself a hero. Please God, let it not be Phil…

Dent merely grunted, and they returned to silence. But Dickon found he could no longer concentrate. His gut was churning with a growing sense of horror and foreboding. It couldn't be… it couldn't possibly be…

When the lorry rumbled up, and began to offload its cargo of new recruits, Dickon watched carefully, noting the face of each man in a way he didn't normally bother to. The tension seizing his heart began to ease slightly, as the cart emptied and there was still no sign of a familiar face. Sowerby was a common enough name, he tried to assure himself. There were sure to be hundreds of them, dotted throughout England. There was no reason to think that it would be –

But then, right at the back, a figure clambered out: painfully, agonizingly familiar. Dickon felt his breath catch, and the blood thump in his ears. He stared, praying to God that he was mistaken, that this was just some kind of nightmare. But he knew it wasn't – he was living the nightmare, after all.

Phil looked up, saw him, and attempted to smile. Dickon scowled, fury coursing through his veins in a way that would have frightened him had he been fully conscious of it. He made to stride forward, intending to force his little brother back into the car, to literally send him running back to Yorkshire, when a hand gripped his shoulder from behind.

"Not in front of the officers," came Dust's low growl, and Dickon forced himself to stillness, knowing the wisdom of the older man's words. The officers didn't take well to infighting among the troops, and any attempt to start trouble would be most likely dealt with swiftly and harshly. "Wait a bit, lad."

It didn't take long. The Generals weren't much interested in a bunch of fresh-faced boys who'd likely be dead within the month, merely unloading them and preparing to leave for more important business. Soon enough the soldiers were alone, and Dickon charged forward to meet his younger brother.

Phil saw him coming and his eyes widened slightly, a combination of fear and defiance.

"Dickon!" he began. "S'good t' – "

"What," hissed Dickon, cutting him off. "I' th' name o' God, Phil, are you doin' here?"

Phil lifted his chin. "I enlisted – "

"You're not of age!" yelled Dickon, the enormity of it beginning to sink in and making him feel physically ill. His brother, here, in the trenches. In the horror of war.

"I'm seventeen," argued Phil. "Tha's close enow." His Yorkshire was still broad and thick, in comparison to Dickon's which had softened after more than a year in Europe. Hearing it brought the memories of home flooding back, and he grit his teeth.

"Does ma know?" he demanded, and from his brother's expression he knew instantly that she didn't. "Did tha' run away, Phil?"

"Aye," he answered defiantly. "I did."

Dickon smacked himself in the forehead, hard, and let out a string of curses under his breath.

Phil's eyes widened at Dickon's language, the kind of language his older brother would never have dreamt of using back home. "I needed t' help tha," he said, looking frightened but resolute. "Tha's been fightin' a whole year, s'no' righ' tha' I should – "

"Help me?" snarled Dickon viciously. "If tha' wanted t' help me Phil, tha' shoulda' stayed in Yorkshire wit' our ma! Alive!"

Phil opened his mouth to argue, before his attention was caught by something behind Dickon's shoulder. Dickon turned, and saw that Dust was shaking his head at them. Behind him the rest of the new recruits huddled, unabashedly eavesdropping.

"Enough," Dust growled, focusing his eyes on Dickon. "The boy's here and there's nothing you can do about it."

"I can send him back," he answered quickly, desperate for it to be true but knowing it wasn't. Once you were accepted into the regiment that was it, more or less. They didn't care if you were a year or two underage; the shortage of men was too dire to be that picky. "He's not of age, if th' General knew he'd – "

"No!" said Phil loudly. "If I'm sent back, I'll jus' run away again. I swear't Dickon, I will!"

Dickon glared at his younger brother, for all the world wanting to thump him. He couldn't help but feel as though this was all his fault, somehow. If something happened to Phil he would never forgive himself. "I canna protect thee," he said quietly, lowering his voice so that only Phil could hear.

"An' I'm no' askin' tha' too," said Phil. "I know wha' I'm doin', Dickon."

"No, tha' doesn'," he said darkly, looking over his shoulder at the filthy trench, thick with the stench of decay and hopelessness. "Tha's no idea at all."

.

London, 1918.

"God dammit!"

Colin slammed his fist against the table. The sound echoed around the Williams' empty study. Outside, in the tree whose branches scraped against the window, a bird chirped in alarm at the sudden noise.

"God dammit," he said again, softer this time. His head slumped into his hands, and he breathed in deeply, trying to get a hold of himself. The letter he had been reading slid from the desk and fluttered onto the floor. His father's neat and steady handwriting stared up at him, belying the dreadful message it had carried all the way across England.

Phil Sowerby had run away.

Colin groaned again, his head beginning to throb. This was his fault, all his fault. He knew Dickon's younger brother well – they were the same age, after all. Phil had always been a boisterous young lad, with a particular affinity for football and wrestling. And he'd adored Dickon… hadn't they all? It wasn't hard to imagine that he would have thought to run off and join the army in search of his older brother. The tragedy was that none of them had been able to prevent it.

He was only seventeen. The lad must have lied about his age to get in. Colin felt guilt wrack through him when he thought what Mrs Sowerby must be feeling, her two eldest boys off to fight in a war that was taking thousands of lives a day, and no guarantee either of them would ever come back.

There was a slight creak, and Colin turned in time to see the door to the study being pushed ajar. A moment later and Mary's pale face came into view, her eyes wide and fearful.

"Colin?" her voice trembled, and he knew that she had heard him and feared the worst. "What's happened?"

"I – " he couldn't lie to her. She would know instantly, and besides she deserved the truth. "It's… my father just sent me a letter. And – "

She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. In the candlelight her face was deathly pale. "Is – is it – " she put a hand to her chest and winced. "Him?"

He had to spit it out; he could see how much not knowing was torturing her. "It's Phil," he said, his voice so hoarse and croaky he hardly recognised it. "He's run away. Joined the army. They don't know where he is."

She blinked, once, twice; her eyes clouded with confusion. He recognised the warring emotions there because he felt them himself; first, relief that it wasn't news of the worst kind, the kind they dreaded, the kind that kept him awake at night and stole his appetite in the morning when he had to force himself to open the paper and scan the casualty lists, praying to God that Dickon's name wouldn't be there; but after the relief, grief for the Sowerby family, now without their two eldest sons, and sorrow for Dickon himself, who was far away and did not even know that his brother had volunteered. His father had said they would not be telling Dickon, since there was nothing that could be done now. It would only distract him, and in war, such distraction could prove fatal.

"But he's only seventeen," she said, and then came the third emotion, anguish and heartache at the unfairness of the world, at the fact that there was a war at all and that so many young men had already lost their lives to it, so many families had already received that worst kind of news.

"I know," he said thickly. "I know."

"Dickon – does he – ?"

"No. They won't tell him. There's no point."

She nodded, and he became vaguely aware that she was dressed only in a nightgown. "I'm sorry," he said awkwardly. "Did I wake you?"

"I wasn't sleeping."

"Oh." He tried not to stare, hated that even now, after everything they had been through, he couldn't prevent the twinge of desire that shot through his body at the sight of her. He felt disgusted with himself. How could he be thinking of such things, when his best friend was trapped in some killing field in France, surrounded by death?

"I want to go home, Colin." Her voice was little more than a whisper, but it resonated in every corner of his body. For he felt the same longing himself. "Back to the garden. To the way things used to be."

"I know." He got up and went over to her, and she curled into his offered arms with a sigh. He closed his eyes as her soft body melded to his, forcing back his body's own reaction. He knew Mary didn't feel the same way, and she didn't need to deal with his pathetic longing right now. Not when there was so much else to worry about. That was his millstone to bear, and his alone.

A/N: Thanks again for reading, and to all those who feel inclined to review - you guys are the reason I keep posting.

Till next time, ~A