It's autumn again. Leaves crunch under his feet as he walks home from school, littering the edges of the narrow road, the Old Way. The Thames Valley is awash in red and gold, a last brilliant show of colour before the year dies.
Will thinks it should be beautiful.
He rounds the corner into Huntercombe Lane and picks up the pace. He's got a load of homework in the bag on his back, and a long list of chores to do before tea. There are disadvantages to being one of only two Stanton children left at home, he's finding, and one of these is in the division of labour.
The collies greet him on the porch, lifting their heads and beating their tails against the wooden floor. Will rubs their ears and greying muzzles, and they lick his fingers in return. He enters the house and just inside the front door discovers his brother James, lurking purposefully.
"What are you doing?" Will says. He reaches past James to sort through the post, today's small pile of envelopes in the usual spot on the hall table.
"Waiting for you," James replies. "I'm not feeding all those animals on my own."
Will only half-believes him, as everything about James's expression and bearing says that this is merely a half-truth. And when he spots the envelope with his name on, he knows it is.
"It's from that Drew girl, isn't it?" James asks.
It is indeed. It's a Hallowe'en card, handmade, complete with a fat white ghost, a grinning jack o'lantern, and an interestingly-shaped black cat. Jane doesn't exactly share her mother and brother's talent for art.
"If a girl sent me cards all the time, I'd write her back," James remarks.
"It's not all the time," Will replies. And he does write her, sometimes. He flips through the rest of the envelopes to make certain, but there's not one stamped swyddfa'r post. He wonders if there will be one this year, and if he'll open it if it comes.
"She sent you one at August Bank Holiday, for god's sake. Don't try to deny it."
Will sighs. It had been a letter, not a card, but pointing out the distinction would be more trouble than it's worth. "I'm going to ignore you now," he says, turning to lead the way to the barn. "Don't take it personally."
****
That night, Will dreams.
Sometimes his nights are glorious things, reflections of memory from beyond this time and experiences beyond human understanding. He is a tree, tall and strong, or the wind in its leaves; he is a creature in the depths of the sea, or soaring on feathered wings above the world. Some nights, he listens to the stars sing.
Some nights, but not all.
****
The ground beneath Rooks' Wood is spread with a carpet of leaves, bright orange and gold making pretty patterns atop those that are older, dry and brown. Will kicks a few as he walks along the lane that leads to the old stone church. It is the first Sunday of a new month, the day of the saints.
Will is distracted in the service, and only partly because the previous night proved more tiring than restful. He launches into song a breath after James does, kneels in prayer a moment too late. The rector speaks words of the day, following in the faith of all your saints, and Will tries not to hear them.
He's spent the week carefully ignoring the signs of a night older than Britain, older than the Church. He's looked past fat pumpkins on doorsteps and paper skeletons in shop windows. October and Samhain are behind him now, but there's still so much to ignore.
The prayer is over, and Mr. Beaumont has uncovered the bread and wine. Will rises and follows his brother and the rest of the choir down to the altar to receive ancient tokens of forgiveness.
****
Night again. Will decides not to sleep. Better to stay up, counting the wooden roof-beams on the ceiling of his attic room into the still early hours of the morning, than to be lost in those nightmare days again.
It's good plan; too bad it doesn't work. It's two a.m. when James shakes him awake, face worried in the dim lamp-light. It takes Will a moment to realize he's no longer in bed. His legs are tangled up in the blankets and his head is already throbbing. He must have hit the floor hard, for James to hear him a storey below.
Will sits, wipes sweat from his forehead with a shaky hand. "Sorry to wake you."
James waves an impatient hand. "Not a problem," he says, peering at Will with big-brotherly concern. "That is, as long as you tell me what's wrong."
"It's nothing. Just a dream."
His brother snorts. "Try again."
Will sighs. "You'll think I'm strange."
"What, stranger than usual?"
"Fine." Will looks up at the ceiling, deciding how much to say, how to say it. "Do you remember when I was so ill, a few years ago?"
"Of course." James frowns. "You're not feeling bad again, are you?"
Will shakes his head. "No. Just remembering what it felt like. Not being ill so much, but afterwards. When –" He takes a deep breath. "When I didn't know who I was."
James opens his mouth, but Will cuts him off. "I knew I was Will Stanton, okay? But I didn't know – I couldn't remember – what that meant." He's careful not to look at James now. It feels good to say this, to get this out, and if he sees his brother's confusion he won't be able to finish. "Everything important, everything that was mine and nobody else's, was… gone. Hidden away. I– all I could do was keep reaching for it."
Silence. Will imagines he can hear leaves falling on the roof, mingling with the sound of James' breathing. He knows he hasn't properly conveyed the whirling of a world turned upside down, the panic, the feeling of drowning in an unfathomable loss.
Nor has he mentioned the guilt in watching as something blindingly similar was done in the name of right. Yes, there had been a choice, for one. And Will had been silent, and selfish; he'd shared no experience and given no words of warning.
"But – you're okay now, right?" James asks, finally. "You got it all back?"
"Yes," he says, with an unsteady laugh. "Yeah, I'm okay."
He got it back. He is whole.
***
Notes:
Swyddfa'r post is Welsh for post office and is included on Welsh postmarks.
Following in the faith of all your saints is an excerpt from the liturgy of the Church of England, part of the preface prayer for the Holy Communion on All Saints' Day.Thanks to Cynthia Black for Brit-pick and Brit-research, Shayla for beta, and Zelda Ophelia for encouragement.