Trigger warning for grief, loss of loved one, war.
a/n: [08-16-21] This is a plot bunny I had while writing Wake Up To Your Smile and tbh, I wasn't sure whether or not I should publish this story. But I swallowed up my anxiety and crossed my fingers. It might be a bit historically incorrect as I had to adjust my own knowledge (which is not much, I'm afraid) to fit my vision. I'm sorry for any grammatical and/or technical mistake. Thank you for reading.
Disclaimer: Fifty Shades Trilogy and its companion books belong to amazing EL James. This is a non-profit fanwork.
Way Back Home
I'm still here for you
.
Dearest Christian,
Snow is just falling again this night. I'm watching it right now from our bedroom window. If you were here with me, maybe you would tell me something about how the snow was made, or some technical things like that. And I would be watching and listening to your explanation instead.
I don't know much about the place where you are right now, but I hope it's not snowing there. It makes me anxious to imagine how you would survive the frostbite. I'll always worry about you, dear.
I ate plenty this evening. Your child made me do weird things, huh? I even got overly emotional when I played your music box. I cried so much. So much that maybe the baby felt bad and demanded me to eat again so I could stop the tears. He's going to be a little tyrant, much like you, love.
I miss you, like yesterday and tomorrow. I'll always miss you. Come back home, Christian? This frozen night is too much for me to bear alone.
Your melancholic wife,
Anastasia.
My dear Christian,
It saddens me truly that your clothes didn't smell like you any more. I must make a confession here that the last night before you were sent to the war, I couldn't bring myself to wash your clothes. It was a token from you; your last scent I don't ever want to forget.
There's so much more I want to memorize. Like the way you gaze down at me, as if you're seeing some kind of otherworldly deity. I am far from goddess, my love, but you always begged to differ. But I certainly don't mind your tender gaze, or your embrace. You hugged me like you're afraid to let me go.
And now I am the one who is afraid to let you go.
Where are you now, love? They were sending more men there yesterday. It's getting worse, isn't it? Some wives were left sobbing just like yours truly that fateful day. You didn't even give me a proper kiss.
I must end this letter now. My tears are out of control again.
Live, Christian. Fight for us.
Your devoted wife,
Ana.
Dearest Christian,
It's night now, and I'm looking at the full moon. Do you watch it, too?
I felt him kicked this morning, your child. For now, my gut tells me that this child is a boy, exactly as you wished. My belly is round, not quite like the moon up there, but close. When I caress it like you did that night on my then still flat belly, I feel calm. Tranquil. He is growing day by day. Keeping me company. Keeping me sane. A hopeful existence, a blessing, the last gift that tethers you to me—body and soul.
Have you eaten yet? How is your headache? I really hope you would have decent sleeps, despite the situation you might be in.
I miss you, forever and always.
Come home soon?
Hugs and kisses and loves,
Anastasia and the baby.
My dear Christian,
When your letters stopped coming, people assumed the worst.
My sister visited me everyday. The miles are a burden, but she made sure I am not alone. The neighbors whispered behind my back that it was a matter of time that a coffin would be brought here with your cold body laying inside it.
People said not seeing your body would be better for me. But I don't want that. I used to say I love you for who you are, be it your crazy hair, or crooked fingers. I love you down to your tiny scars across your palms because you always worked hard. It doesn't matter if your body was broken way beyond recognizable, I would still love you.
I don't like this silence, Christian.
Please send me a letter. A couple of words as a sign that you're indeed alive. And you're coming back to me. I would like to hold you, to see you even for the last time. Please come back home.
Ana.
My beloved Christian,
I saw you in my dream last night. As a matter of fact, I saw you everywhere, every time.
I saw you in your old jacket I wear, in the garden, in our bathroom. Last night, you were holding me close, whispering your love to me and our unborn child. You kissed my bump repeatedly. You said you wouldn't leave me, not any more. You felt so real, Christian, so—so real I thought you actually came back home. But, like every other dream, I awoke. Alone.
And you disappeared.
I tried to live everyday without you. It's hard. No one tells me how difficult it is.
I tend your garden daily. I sew and cook so that we wouldn't starved. But loneliness lingers. It's like air; you couldn't see it, but you feel it.
It's dark without you, love…
Dearest husband,
Time is a cruel foe.
It haunts me with vengeance. It's a relentless creature. It didn't heal. God knows it didn't ease the pain of being parted with you. Time just went by, until the pain became dull, and I become used to it, like a blanket around my heart.
We thought we had all the time in the world.
How wrong we were.
If only I knew the significance of that night to me, I would hold you tighter, kiss you longer. I would follow your lead eagerly, not complaining all the way to the surprise you had planned for me. I would appreciate you more.
I had just revealed that we would become parents that night.
'Twas after your sweet serenade. I could still see your dumbfounded face. It makes me laugh even now. But then you held me, just held me on our bed amongst the petals of roses you had prepared. Even your kiss after that still makes me tingle.
I couldn't forget your shining eyes swimming in tears. Thanking me. Telling me how happy I made you feel.
And now, I am waiting for your child arrival.
Come home, Christian.
Your loving wife,
Anastasia.
You're a father now, Christian.
Our son was born in the middle of the night, 2nd of May. He was born with a good weight and has a good pair of lungs. He screamed a lot, a bit like you. As of now, I am writing this letter with my right hand while he is napping on my left. I'm getting good at this. I think motherhood suits me well.
He has your mouth, Christian, the lips I love so much. He has my eyes, though, like you always prayed. I don't know from which side he got his cute little button nose, but he definitely inherited your big ears, love. Poor baby. But I love your big ears, love. After all, you listened to my relentless rambling.
We didn't even decide on a name. But I want to name him after you. Little Christian Grey. My salvation and joy, just like his father.
You wouldn't disagree, would you?
Remember that night when I said I wanted us to identify which part of him he got from us? I'm doing it alone now, on a sheet of thin paper that would easily break, hoping it would reach you and somehow convince you to come home sooner. I want you to hold your son, hear his cries, sleeping with him, talking to him. I want you here, Christian, I want you. You should be here witnessing the new life we created together, and not in the some-God-knows-where place, fighting for dear life.
I'm terrified. I don't want to do this alone, but for you two, I'll try my hardest to be a good mother.
I miss you.
Forever yours,
Ana.
My love,
It's been almost two years since we were apart.
I sent you so many letters I've lost count. I'm just hoping you had received all of them.
Little Chris has grown so much. He has your crazy hair, love! I like rubbing my face into it, just like I did yours. I hope your hair will grow back. I felt miserable when you cut it all off when the officer arrived.
Little Chris can say some simple words now. Did you know what was his first word? It was 'Da'. I taught him how to speak 'dada' more than 'mama'. It was actually funny how he first said it. You see, I always showed him your photographs when I teach him. Especially our wedding day photos. Then one day, I was just put him down to his chair when he pointed at your photo and started squealing 'Dada' on top of his lungs. I was so startled that I knocked over my favorite vase—the one you said looked awful. If it was possible, he looked so proud when I praised him after that. He is such a daddy's little boy, I swear.
You had missed out on so many things in his life.
…
I am crying right now. My eyes hurt and the tears just won't stop falling. So I'll just have to stop writing here.
I just want you to know, Christian, when Little Chris asked about you in the future, I would be proud to tell him all about you. My hero. Our hero.
I love you so much. I miss you so much.
Yours,
Ana.
Dearest Christian,
They said your division will be back tomorrow! I'm so happy, so, so happy that I couldn't stop laughing. Finally, I'll see you, my love. I miss you. I love you.
I know you wouldn't break your promise.
It's a short letter, love, I don't even know if you would receive this, given you're traveling back now. But I want to let you know, I'll be waiting. I'll always wait for your return.
See you at the train station. I can't wait to see you. I love you.
Your excited wife,
Ana.
You didn't come home, Christian.
No one knows where you are. Your division indeed came back yesterday, yet when I waited at the station, you're nowhere to be found. I wore my best dress. I even dropped Little Chris at dawn to my sister. I was brimming with happiness. But when the last soldier stepped out of the train, I realize you weren't coming back.
I asked Mr. Sawyer who was sent in the same division as you, but he said you two had lost contact in your first relocation.
Where are you, my love? My happiness now withered, and turned into despair. I am so helpless. I could not reach out to you. What should I do? How can I bring you back? Where are you, Christian?
Please come home. I'm still waiting. I'll be waiting till the end of time for you.
Still no news from you.
I sent this from the military headquarter. I don't know where you are, or if you still in your last station.
Some people here were talking about how impossible it is to know your exact location. I hate them. They look at me in pity. I don't need any of their pity, I need them to find you. And bring you to me.
This horrible person even had the gall to say something like arranging your funeral. I snapped at him. If it was possible, I would like to attack him. I just didn't do that because they might help me to find you.
I won't give up on you, love. I would threaten this country if necessary, so that I could find you—or, at least—give this letter to you. Apparently, they said maybe you were joining the last force, which is still in someplace near the France border. I sincerely hope so.
I'll be waiting. I pray everyday, like a broken record, that God brings you back to us.
Please reply to this, love.
Anastasia Grey.
Beloved husband and father,
Today, your captain and your fellow soldiers held a funeral at the national cemetery. They still haven't found your body. But that didn't stop them to do the proper burial of an empty casket.
I felt sick the entire day.
I wear a mourning gown now. People are gathering outside our house to pay respect, so I ask my sister to watch it over. I'm here in our room. I can't stand the ceremony. I can't stand to meet other people. I'm tired, Christian. So very tired.
Our son is sleeping on your pillow. (Your scent had completely vanished, love.) He seems peaceful, unaware that his mother is writing letter to his lost father.
Am I a bad wife for not sending out your empty casket, Christian? I hate their stares, their whispers. I still can't accept your death.
So here I am, once again, writing this without knowing where I could send this letter. There aren't any soldiers left in the foreign stations, they said.
I'll just save this in your drawer, love.
I miss you like crazy. I used to think this was just a nightmare and I would wake up one day, enveloped by and within your arms.
I don't think I could write any more, Christian. But don't think I'll stop waiting, because I will not.
I'll see you again. Maybe years along the way. Or maybe in the hereafter. In the meantime, I will take care of Little Chris.
I love you, Christian Grey. Your son loves you. We're still here for you. Forever and always.
Yours truly,
Anastasia Grey.
.
.
.
Ana dreamed of him.
The dreams came to her every day, it seemed. Sometimes it was a happy one—of him holding baby Chris, or singing him to sleep. Sometimes the dreams left her shaken, weeping into her pillow. She would awake in between sobs, gasping as the fragments of her dream faded into the darkness.
Was that all he was now? Just a fragment of a dream she barely remembered?
This time, he sat beside her in the light. No other sound, nor sight. It was just an infinite white as oppose to her days which consisted of darkness. She called his name, crying in happiness that he was there. Their hands entwined. When he looked like he wanted to say something, the dream vanished.
She woke up before he couldn't say a word.
Sitting up to the headboard of the bed, Ana looked over her son who was sleeping soundly beside her. Gently, she rubbed his chubby cheek, feeling calmer that Chris didn't disappear like his father. Such handsome boy, she mused. Chris slept here every night because physical distance was not an option for her.
She reached for a music box under Chris' palm. The little boy could only sleep after they played Daddy's melody.
Her memory resurfaced like tidal wave...
It seemed like just yesterday, when Christian lifted the scrap of cloth from her eyes and smiling proudly as she observed their bedchamber, astonished. The room was magically transformed into what Ana believed was heaven. There were three candles lit beside the bed, the flickering flame illuminated everything, including flower petals on their blanket.
After he pushed her shoulders gently so she was sitting on the bed, Christian then got on his knee. A shy smile on his lips as he showed her his surprise—the secret work he devoted himself for months without her knowing.
It was a wooden music box.
That night, she took her sweet time to admire the intricate details of the box. Christian had sculpted ivy leaves all around the box. Engraved in the center of the lid was:
My Love, Anastasia
"It's so beautiful," she murmured, looking down to him.
"For my beautiful girl." Christian took her hand and kissed the palm reverently. In a swift motion he sat next to her on the bed. "Open it," he urged.
Carefully, she lifted the lid up while Christian helped her to rotate a small lever in the side of the box. The painting of a man and a woman inside the lid captured her attention as his favorite song played in gentle melody.
Ana gasped. "You made this? The painting? And the music?"
"I did," he beamed. "I decided to paint our dancing on the wedding day," he explained. "A clocksmith taught me the basic of mechanical parts. It was the cylinder that's so difficult to make."
"You're so capable," she cupped his jaw. "Thank you."
"It took me exactly a couple of months to finish it, which is fortunate. Otherwise I couldn't give it to you tonight as a commemoration of our one-year marriage."
Ana was touched at his honesty. Her heart was so full of love it overflowed.
All at once he nestled his face against her neck, crooning softly for her.
"Maxwelton's braes are bonnie,
where early fa's the dew,
'twas there that Anastasia,
Gi'ed me her promise true."
Ana giggled. "Are you sure that was the lyric?"
Christian nodded, shushing her. She could feel his smirk on her skin.
"Gi'ed me her promise true,
which ne'er forgot will be,
And for my Anastasia,
I would lay down and die.
"Her brow is like a snow-drift,
her neck is like a swan,
her face it is the fairest,
that 'er the sun shone on.
That 'er the sun shone on,
and dark blue is her eye,
and for my Anastasia,
I would lay down and die."
He kissed her ring when he sang promise. And for each brow, neck, face, and eye he planted sweet kisses on her own. Ana laughed because he seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself.
"Like dew on gowans lying,
is the fa's o' her fairy feet,
and like winds in summer sighing,
her voice is low and sweet."
He tucked her hair behind her ear, then kissed her lips, ever so softly.
"Her voice is low and sweet,
and she's all the world to me,
and for my love, Anastasia,
I would lay down and die."
His voice soothed, like a lullaby. It was overwhelming, reverberating. She had never felt love quite like this.
She wanted to cry.
"That was beautiful, Christian."
He sighed, pulling her close so she leaned on him. "I'm just glad you like it."
"Like it?" she scoffed. "I love it! Though, I don't know about the lyrics. I think Sir Douglas sure didn't named his lover Anastasia, don't you?" she asked him, playfully.
He nuzzled her cheek. "I know no Annie Laurie. I just know one Anastasia, and she is the love of my life."
She hit his chest, "Ever the charmer."
"For you my love, everything. I even would lay down and die," he gave her a winsome smile.
Ana didn't know that was the last time she witness his smile.
Many moons had passed.
This song once offered her more than just an empty melody, more than a void remembrance. It was full of love, how he sang to her. Ana was scared she would forget his voice, or the distinct tone he had when he pressed his lips on her skin, or the way his breathing increased when he loved her.
It hurt. It hurt so much that the only thing that keeping her from losing her mind was their son. For three years and a half, she turned her loss, her grief, into love for Little Chris. Only on a night like this she could feel the pain. She hadn't had time to mourn him, or accept his death. She just lived a life as though she was not here.
Her sister, Abigail, had said that it would get better. The pain would lessen and Ana was going to be fine in time. Ana didn't know who she was fooling more, herself, or Ana. because they both know it was a blatant lie.
If only we have more time… if only…
A sharp knock from somewhere in the house startled her.
She stopped breathing.
Who would that be? In the middle of the night?
Fear gripped her heart.
Was it someone from the government? A soldier? An undertaker? Were they here to inform Ana that they had found Christian's body? Her hands shook so much that she was afraid she would drop the music box and wake Chris up.
They knocked again.
This time Ana stood unsteadily, putting down the music box down on her bed with care. After making sure Chris was still sleeping, Ana grabbed Christian's old jacket from the wardrobe, putting it on while she walked out of the room. A small candle she lit helped her to see in the dark.
"Mrs. Grey?" she heard someone called her. From his muffled sound Ana assumed he was at the front door.
"Who are you?" she whispered from behind the door.
"'Tis I, Henry. I found something that belonged to you."
What did the old coachman mean?
She reached the knob, unlocking it warily. "I don't think I've lost something, Mr. Miller."
When Ana opened the door, the old man looked at her with a kind smile and bowed his head as greeting. "I'm sorry it's so late at night. I was driving the carriage from the next town when I found this man walking back and forth in front of the station. I brought him here."
"I'm sorry… what—what are you talking about?"
Mr. Miller gestured at something behind him. "He's there, afraid to see you, I think. And I guess it's better that I leave you to it," he said slowly before nodding at Ana again and walked away. He didn't even wait for Ana's reaction.
What in the world…
Ana stepped outside, looking beyond the porch. The light from Mr. Miller's passing carriage made her aware of a silhouette of a person, standing motionlessly in front of the stairs.
"Who are you?"
The man flinched at her sound. He started to move, in a strange way, but didn't try to walk closer.
Ana approached him, raising the candleholder in her hand.
"I don't have time for this. I have a little child in my house. I don't appreciate this intrusion."
The faint light fell on the man's body. He was wearing a camouflage green clothes. She could tell it was worn and thin. He had a wooden crutch to support him. Who is this person that Mr. Miller thought belonged to her? As she stared at his face, she let out a shocked gasp. The candle almost fell if it wasn't for his reflexive grasp.
"Mama?"
A quiet, little voice came from the front door. Ana stared, dumbfounded, as Little Chris trudged sleepily towards her. Rubbing his eye, he looked up at his mother and an unknown man.
The man who was gazing at him strangely.
"Why cry, Mama?" came his question. "Who are you?"
For a long moment, no one of them knew how to answer him. Ana couldn't form a coherent sentence due to the tears that streaming down her face and the shock that frayed her nerves.
Her knees buckled underneath her, but suddenly a strong arm sneaked around her waist. The familiar scent and face were all too much for her to bear. She couldn't speak, couldn't think. She could only watch like a bystander at how her life spinning out of control once again.
The longing. The ache. The void.
She was drowning in the sea of emotions.
And so, the man answered for both of them,
"Hello, son. I'm your dad."
