Author's Note: It's the final chapter!

Arthur,

Warsaw is not what I imagined it would be.

Training ended last week, and although I'm stronger than ever and my legs can carry nearly twice my weight, I still feel helpless when I hear stories of the German army and how well-equipped they are. And the stories must be true because in the short time I've been stationed in Poland, I've seen flattened homes and charred asphalt—evidence that we shouldn't take our enemies lightly.

But I don't want to tell you about what it's like here because I'm sure you've read about it in the papers already. Besides, I don't want you to unnecessarily worry. I'm all right, really.

I'm more interested in finding out how everyone's doing at home. I want to hear all of the town's gossip, even though I know you don't like meddling in the business of others. Humor me for once.

Speaking of the business of others, I've met a lot of interesting people over the past few months. There's a pilot I know who used to assemble cars and be part of a traveling jazz group. I don't know, it seems like a strange combination, doesn't it?

The other men share stories from home throughout most of the day, and I haven't decided whether it's because they're homesick or because they're afraid of forgetting what life before the war was like. Maybe it's both.

It's easy to let everything mess with your head if you're not careful. I've realized that drinking, women, and a good smoke are the usual ways of dealing with the senseless nature of fighting, but for some reason, none of those things seem attractive to me right now.

Writing has helped. It's not much, and maybe it's not as great as some whiskey, but it's usually enough to keep me grounded. If I'm going to change during this war, I want it to be for the better.

It's funny, when I'm out and about, I'm always coming up with ideas for all of the things I should tell you in my letters, but once I actually pick up a pen, it's like all of the water from my glass has been dumped into the sink, and I don't have anything left except a longing for everything that's been lost.

I hope you're doing well and work hasn't been too demanding. Are you working on a new case? Don't be afraid to share the details—I promise I won't find it boring. I've sat through Major Jackson's story about the crocodile he wrestled with in Florida six times and counting, so I'd honestly be okay with hearing about absolutely anything else at this point.

Get back to me soon.

Miss you tons,

Alfred

Alfred,

You would be surprised with how little information filters over to us. I hope this letter finds you well, and you needn't worry about how things are here. Matthew visited for the New Year, and he's considering leaving Philadelphia to work for the Illinois Inquirer. I'll pretend that you didn't have anything to do with his sudden desire to move. Nor would I ever suggest you were the one who persuaded Gilbert to come and pester me at least once every other day.

While your concern for me is appreciated, I'd sleep much easier if you invested more efforts into your own wellbeing.

As for the chatter around town, Francis has decided to organize a book club. Whether or not he is literate is still up for debate, seeing as his choices of work thus far have consisted of poorly-written romance novels set in the seventeenth century. Gilbert has refused to come to any further meetings until a dystopian science fiction play finds its way onto the table. Ivan has dutifully abided by the reading list, while I have decided to skim through the clumsy prose for only the most pertinent plot points.

In other news, you'll be excited to learn that Gilbert has been searching for an engagement ring to propose to Elizabeta with. He's convinced she'll say no, but I disagree. There will likely be a wedding within the year, so let's hope this war reaches its final act by then.

I am glad you have been able to find some solace in writing these letters. Tempting though it may be, wallowing between pubs will do little to lift one's spirits. Perhaps one day you'll be able to introduce me to the companions you've made.

Work has been slow. The case currently on my desk consists of a minor infraction of disorderly conduct and will be settled by the end of the day. I apologize—it's not particularly fascinating, and there'd be no point in elaborating on it.

Wrestling a crocodile in Florida, you say? My, now that sounds like quite the story. It's a tale you might consider writing down eventually. It could make for useful material if you ever choose to publish a memoir.

How have your lungs been treating you? The cold, mountainous air in Poland isn't exactly the ideal climate for someone with your condition. Ivan suggests you keep warm and pace yourself whenever you're doing strenuous activities. I know your circumstances are rather unforgiving at the moment, and I can't expect you to be treated differently from any other soldier, but that doesn't mean I shouldn't fret over you.

I can only envisage the hell you've been through in the last few months, but I know you will persevere.

Always with you,

Arthur

Arthur,

Nearly six weeks later, and I only now have the chance to write another letter. Plus, this won't get to you for another few weeks, so I may as well not have written to you for two and a half months. You must be worried out of your mind after not hearing from me for so long, and I'm sorry for putting you through that. I've been told though, that in the army, it's sometimes better not to get any news. In fact, that probably means everything is okay, so you'll know not to panic for future reference.

Did Gilbert propose to Elizabeta yet? I have to know! And tell me what books you guys are reading, I need some recommendations even though it's hard to get any decent books around here.

As for the memoir—I could never write a book of my own. I'm just not that type of person.

The cold air isn't such a problem anymore since I'm not in Poland. I'm in southern England (yeah, I know, crazy, huh?). It's just damp and foggy all of the goddamned time here. I don't know how anybody could survive in a place like this for more than a month. I've got to give the Brits credit where credit is due though—they've got steel bars for backbones. Nothing seems to break them. Must be all of the rain and mist that toughened them up so much.

We've been giving the UK troops here some much needed support. It wasn't a pretty sight at first. Things haven't been… great.

But I'm all right, and I know that's what you wanted to know the most. There's lots of air raids and commotion, but it's starting to quiet down.

Also, I don't know what you're talking about in terms of Matt. I would never tell him to move to Illinois to be closer to you. The last thing I want is for his sweet and innocent soul to be corrupted by your cynicism (okay, okay, so maybe I had a little something to do with it, and you know I like your cynicism).

I'm trying to get this letter out to you as soon as possible, so I won't write too much, but I just wanted to tell you that everything's going to be okay. Tell everyone in town that I love them. And if Gilbert hasn't proposed yet, tell him to just do it already!

Hang in there,

Alfred

Alfred,

While I'm relieved to finally hear back from you, you must think I'm daft if you thought I wouldn't notice the troubling aspects of your last letter. How extensive are the air raids? Are you outnumbered in terms of forces? And if you're assuring me things will be okay, then they must not be okay at the present. I heard the fight with Japan is escalating and a greater number of American troops are being concentrated on the Pacific islands. Keep me updated.

Eagerly awaiting further details,

Arthur

It all starts with the dysentery he gets when the war in the Pacific goes into full swing.

One too many times, Alfred takes the risk of drinking some questionable water, but clean water isn't always easy to come by, and usually it's a choice between the risk of disease or death from dehydration. And so, he chooses the lesser of two evils. Having an infection is better than the agonizing pain of having organs shut themselves down one by one.

But in the end, it doesn't make a difference anyway, because he contracts dysentery once and for all and becomes dehydrated anyway. He spends an entire morning vomiting within the camp, and although he goes to the infirmary for help, he gets sent away because most of his unit is sick as well, and he's not the only one who's been unable to hold down his meager breakfast.

The fever makes everything hazy. One minute he's shuffling through groups of fellow soldiers, knocking elbows with them by accident as his wobbling legs carry him forward, and then, in the next minute, he can't remember why he left his tent in the first place. He bobs in and out of awareness like a boat swaying in the open ocean, but he still has enough strength to move about, and for that, he's thankful. At some point, he collapses in his tent and wakes up the following morning, rattled awake by his roommate because they've got a mission to complete today, and if he doesn't get up soon, Major Jackson will use him for heavy labor until his arms detach from his shoulders.

His condition improves somewhat, and he's able to hold down small amounts of water now, but as he marches alongside everyone, head hurting from the sizzling heat beating against his skull, he knows he won't last much longer like this, especially not in combat.

He adjusts the strap of the gun on his back as his group is led out and into a thicket of trees on the outskirts of a beach. He only catches half of the long list of instructions barked at him. Apparently, they've gotten word that the Japanese are planning an attack today, so everyone is expected to stay on guard and hide themselves in the canopy of the trees for a surprise counterattack.

And so, even though his body is aching and his intestines are sending hot spouts of pain at him, Alfred gets himself up into a tree and waits, just as he's supposed to. Everything turns still and silent aside from the rustling leaves, and he leans his head against the sturdy trunk behind him, hoping to rest his eyes for a second or two.

A second becomes a minute. A minute becomes ten minutes, and then, without knowing how much time has passed, his eyes spring wide open at the sound of gunfire ricocheting above him. He sits up, tries to get a good look around him and find cover, but his body moves slower than his mind, and as he ducks his head at the bullets flying from his right, something snags him on the left.

At first, it feels as though he's been badly burned. He hobbles out of the tree and searches for someone from his unit, but his vision is blurring as he can't see a thing. There's blood leaking out of new hole in his abdomen, and his delirious mind idiotically thinks that maybe he should head out toward the beach. He'll be more open to enemy fire, but he has a better chance of being spotted by his team there than here.

The wound doesn't really hurt as much as he expects it to, and maybe that's because his body is so rundown that it can't feel pain anymore, or maybe it's the adrenaline that's covering up the severity. Regardless, he's able to propel himself to the sandy shore. There's no one in sight as most of the fighting continues from between the trees, and so, he is at peace for a moment.

He lies down in the sand, hoping that if he doesn't move, a Japanese soldier won't have a reason to shoot at him. With one hand pressed against his abdomen, he looks up at the beaming sun as his headache buzzes on.

The sun doesn't look any different no matter where you look at it from, and that small realization brings him comfort. He tries to imagine what he'd be doing if he weren't at war right now. Maybe he'd be studying for a class, reading a book, visiting town and helping to plan Gilbert's wedding.

Arthur is most likely asleep because although it's well in the afternoon where Alfred is, it's an hour or two past midnight in Illinois. Then again, his old caretaker has been having trouble sleeping lately, according to Matthew. Is he up now—looking out the window and having a cup of chamomile tea? Is he thinking about him? Can he somehow feel that he's lying in the middle of this abandoned beach, bleeding out and waiting for help?

Probably not.

He closes his eyes and remembers the drywall behind him on the very first day he met Arthur, green eyes blinking at him with conviction—asking for his name. Riding in the car for the first time. Meeting Baron. Going out to town with Francis. The chocolate bars at Beilschmidt Sweets. Ms. Hedervary in her garden. Ivan sitting by his bedside. Ludwig sweeping the floors. Mr. Honda reading his haiku and saying poetry could give a man his wings.

And he could use some wings right about now. He could fly up and off of this beach. He could leave the anger and the pain and the fighting behind him. He could go back to when things were simple and easy—when the hardest part of his day was convincing Arthur to let him go exploring the fields with Toris.

Pain. He's starting to feel it now. It's an awful thing. He hopes he managed to take some of it away over the years, like when he stayed with Arthur when the man broke his wrist. Or when Baron died, and they shed tears for him together. Or when he helped Francis with the groceries. Or when he asked Gilbert to play soccer. Or when he walked Toris home after he was bitten by that snake.

Maybe all of it meant nothing. Maybe there wasn't a resolution at the end—but it was something, and it mattered.

He is tired. Maybe he'll just rest. The blood is now seeping from between his fingers, but he doesn't try to stop it. Maybe this is how all of the pain leaves the body.

He feels himself becoming lighter, as though he's floating a few inches off the ground. Mind separates from body. He feels like he could just drift away. At first, the sensation is alarming, but then, he lets it be.

Everything is okay. The fight is ending. The town will always be there, and they will have each other, just as they always have.

The pain begins to fade. It still hurts, but it won't hurt forever.

The rushing sound of the waves crashing into the shoreline gets softer, and he just lets himself drift.

Drifting… Drifting…

Drifting all the way home.