Scars

Disclaimer: If I owned The Hour it would still be continuing on in some form other than fanfiction. But, alas, as it has been cancelled it means that I, indeed, own nothing.

Summary: "And did you leave a wife or a sweetheart behind, In some loyal heart is your memory enshrined, And though you died back in 1916, To that loyal heart you're forever nineteen"Thomas Kish/ Wife, 1957.

Author's Note: Set in the same universe as all my pervious stories, though occurring concurrent with the events of the series. The song quoted here is No Man's Land. I also, unfortunately could not remember if Mrs. Kish was ever given a first name or what the name of their kids were – a son and daughter. Similarly I wasn't sure of when he died exactly, so I have taken some liberties.

Helen Kish looked at her husband's grave, a sad smile on her features. The grass had finally started to peak up from under the dirt; it was as fine as feathers and a vivid green, contrasting with the dark muddy brown of the earth. At least it wasn't bald any more, less bare and raw. The earth was healing, faster than she was but there was hope for them both.

Thomas Alexander Kish
Born September 1st, 1920 – April 28th, 1957
Beloved Husband and Father

And did you leave a wife or a sweetheart behind, In some loyal heart is your memory enshrined, And though you died back in 1916, To that loyal heart you're forever nineteen

When they married she'd known what kind of work he was in. She had known what kind of life they would lead. She loved him so she accepted the risk. Fool she was, thinking that he would live – that she would be spared this pain.

"John looks more like you every day Thomas." She told the stone. "He misses you a great deal. We all do Thomas. You would be so proud of him, he's taken it upon himself to tell little Annie all about you. She…" Tears catching in her throat, "She's still too young Thomas, but…but she will know you. John…John and I will see to it."

Or are you a stranger without even a name, forever enshrined behind some old glass pane, in an old photograph torn, tattered and stained, and faded to yellow in a brown leather frame

"There are some days I am so mad at you Thomas Kish that I could just spit. You could have actually been a translator Thomas, we could have still had a nice life. You'd still be here with me. I'd still have a husband. I'd still have a husband." She dried her eyes and took a deep breath. Then another one.

"And then there are some days that I miss you so much that I ache. I cannot move, it burns in my bones, my joints, my skin. I can feel it roil in my stomach. I can scarcely get out of bed. And then I hear our children and I know that I must, it takes all my strength, all my power."

Helen. She can almost hear him, hear the way he would say her name when she was upset. She fell to her knees in the grass, tears coming once again.

"I can hear you, you know. Feel you as well, you're still with me, even in the darkest of my depression. I appreciate that you never left me, that you will never leave me. It's crazy, I know. You're gone, buried and gone. I do so love you. And I know. I know why you when, why you chose to do what you did. How important this was to you – your work, your country. I know. But thank you, thank you for not leaving me. It makes it easier, a little, knowing that you're still here."

Did they beat the drums slowly?
Did the play the fife lowly?
Did they sound the death march as they lowered you down?
Did the band play the last post and chorus?
Did the pipes play the flowers of the forest?

"Thomas." She said softly, her tears drying in the wind, "I love you." She thought she heard the wind reply,

I love you too, Helen.