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Etaples Base Camp, France
Spring, 1916
The gravel beneath his feet crunches softly as he walks, his fingers absently brushing the tops of the tulips that grow on the side of the road, his brow furrowed, his mind a tumultuous ocean. Though he has only been here a little over a week, his feet already know where to take him when his heart is uneasy.
The road ahead of him is empty, the sun drifting softly behind the clouds, lighting up the sky in ribbons of orange and gold as it sets. The camp has settled into a restless quiet, punctuated only by birdsong and a steady murmur of activity as the men begin to look for rest after a long day at training. Sunset has quickly become Killian's favourite part of the day here. A respite from the constant tramping feet and shouted orders of every morning and the endless echoing gunfire of the front every night. A brief moment of calm before it all begins again.
But today, even though the camp has begun to take its rest, Killian's mind yet rings with the words that had been said to him a few hours ago.
"You've got to send one soon, Captain, especially if you haven't written home since you've gotten here. I bet your sweetheart is thinking of you."
His belly twists softly-in longing, in fear, he does not know. But he pulls away from the feeling, wrenching his heart back as he continues forward, his hand reaching out to pull a low hanging branch out of the way of his path.
It is a strange place he's in, he thinks. The camp, set upon a slope by the side of the fishing town of Etaples, sweeps across the French countryside as though painted on in an accidentally large brush stroke by a careless artist. It is a city of tents, endless white stretching on and around the winding roads that weave through it. Hospitals, Training Camps, Quarters and rest huts- it has everything a man at war might need to feel as close to stability as he could, and yet.
Despite the myriad of tongues and accents and colours that fill the camp, despite soldiers hailing from all corners of the globe being stationed here, they all had the same expressions on their faces- a sort of agitated anticipation. Though they tried very hard each evening to be merry, to be hopeful and excited, the unease in their gaze could not be hidden, coming through in their sighs as they spoke of home, in the shaking hands that gripped their mugs too hard, in the silences that filled the spaces between their smiles.
The men were only ever here two weeks or so before being sent up the line. Young faces, eyes bright and ready to go find their glories, their last stop in France before they joined the war for real. Men who had seen it all, had been broken by it, but not enough that they could go home, sent back to fight after a little time in the hospitals that flooded the hillside, standing like sentries. This place becoming the centre of their circle, coming here to heal when they were broken and coming here to begin all over again.
It is not hard then, to believe that it had taken a few days of suspicious gazes and cold salutes before they had begun to accept his presence. A few days before they had begun to realise that though he was an officer, he had served, unlike most officers here in charge of training. His missing hand had become a badge of glory here as much as it had been a mark of pity back in London.
It had only taken a stumbling soldier, his pack slipping from his back while on parade; one helping hand and a quick smile of gratitude; a shared cup of tea after a long day with a young man who missed home, for Killian to make a friend.
The soldier, Graham, is a quiet chap, his manner too sombre, his eyes too serious for a lad of nineteen but he had taken to Killian easily. His voice easing into a soft flow as he spoke of his fiance back home, his calls for Killian to join him for a cup of something at Lady Angela's after training becoming more frequent. It is where Killian had been when Graham had asked-
He shakes his head softly, eyes lifting from where he had had them trained at the ground. His hand moves away from the tulips, wiping the pollen on his fingertips on his knee before stuffing it into his pocket.
It matters not how far he wants to run, for she finds him regardless.
The road turns a corner and he is faced with a large marquee, white of course, one of many that dot this side of the camp, making up General Hospital no.26. Even from where he stands he can see the splashes of muted blue dash between the tents, the nurses' caps fluttering in the breeze as they go.
He turns away to walk off the road, a little ways down the hill side. Trying not to look back again, trying not to imagine that he'd seen a flash of golden hair, heard that rare, sweet laugh. Trying not to read too deeply into the fact that the place he found most comfort so far from home, was beside a hospital looking over the ocean that lay between him and her.
"I bet your sweetheart is thinking of you."
He curls his hand around the strap of his pack, taking careful steps down the hill until he reaches the tree. His tree. He had found it on his very first day here when he had been wandering the camp with his sketchbook and pencils strapped to his back. From where he stands now, he can see the railway tracks that line the edge of the camp. Beyond them, the dunes where the men are marched off most mornings to drill, where Killian stands by them, coughing in the sand lifted by the breeze and tramping feet as he sketches them.
And finally beyond that, lies the river, clear blue waters opening up to the sea.
His pack falls to the ground with a low thump as he sinks down after it, his eyes following the gentle ripples in the water that reflect the colours unbraiding in the sky.
And finally, he can run no more, allowing his thoughts to go back to the one thing they had been circling for so long, where they had immediately gone when Graham had asked about writing home.
Emma.
It's only been two months that he's been away. It's only been a little more than that that he's known her. And yet, she follows him about like a phantom, her reflection in every sunset upon clear waters, in every flower that blooms on land marred by battle.
Her face in his heart every time someone asks about home.
The back of his head hits the bark of the tree softly as he leans back, his eyes closing. He's been trying not to think of her or rather, trying to think of her as a story that's ended. But that's hard to do when he'd never really said goodbye. The sight of her hair spread across the pillows in his home, the soft light of dawn lighting her face as she slept, a small smile on her face, lives in his mind as clear as it had been yesterday.
He knows not why he runs, for her sake or for his own, for fear of never seeing her again or for fear of having to say goodbye once more if he does get the chance.
He knows not why he runs but his heart rebels every time he tries.
And today when Graham had asked about home, about writing to someone, he had been struck with an ache in his heart so strong that it called for him to write to her, to let himself hope that she might write back, to let himself wonder if she might think of him too.
Her cheeks red from the cold, her brows furrowed as she talks, her fingers holding on to his, skin to skin in the light and warmth of the pub, her dress shimmering in the low light as she spins in his arms. Her image lives in the darkness behind his eyes, flashes of colour that have him clinging to them, that leave him wanting, standing alone in the ruins of their almost kiss.
A breeze blows in from the water, carrying the faintest lick of salt and the ocean, rushing through his hair, chilling his ears. He runs a hand over his face, his eyes squeezing shut as a sigh runs through his body from somewhere deep inside him. His eyes half open, drifting across the scenery in front of him even as he waits for the ache in his heart to soften, helpless to the fierce wanting that lives within him.
Spring is fully alive along the hill, tulips in every colour dotting the landscape, his eyes drinking in their hues, so unlike the uncolours of the clothes they all wear and the sand in the dunes where the men spend their days training. The stillness of the water is disturbed by the tops of the sails of the fishing fleet returning home for the night, their shapes a silhouette against the darkening sky.
And as he sits here between a hospital filled with women that make him look twice for having seen her shadow and the ocean that lies between them, he wonders if despite his mind's protests, his heart had really tried at all to resign himself to a life without her.
He is jerked away from his thoughts by the first shot of the night, the sound of the guns from the front easily audible here. One might even mistake it for thunder had it not been a clear night, but the shots pick up in speed and it is as though the earth shakes beneath him and he stands.
All at once, on top of the crescendo of destruction that would bring new visitors to the hospital behind him, he hears a voice. His brother's. Soft and fierce, only just beginning to break into manhood, his voice rings in Killian's ears as though a reprimand for-
A man unwilling to fight for what he wants, deserves what he gets.
Perhaps it is time he takes his chance.
One last look at the ocean, the sounds of the guns already become a part of his surroundings, he begins to make his way back to his quarters, his hand clutching at his pack.
He had a letter to write.
London, England
Spring, 1916
"They read out a letter he'd written to the school and everything and they read out the names of all the boys-"
Henry takes a bite out of his sandwich, continuing to speak, ignoring Mary Margaret's affectionate murmur to chew as he tells his grandfather about his day.
"- who had signed up for the war and the headmaster called them heroes! It was incredible."
"I'm sure it was, Henry."
David shoots a look in her direction, his smile never wavering but his eyes sharing the same concern that swam in her own. They sit around the table in the library for tea, cups in all their hands and Henry still in his uniform as the sun sets behind the windows.
Henry's face is lit harshly by the light from the windows. All golden smiles and sharp angles, he looks half on his way to being a man already and though he has been going to school more regularly now, she has begun to worry about the things he is being exposed to while there instead.
"They talk about all the adventures-"
Henry's voice cuts off as Smithers steps into the room-
"Apologies for interrupting but I have Miss Anna and-"
He never finishes his sentence, a rush of red hair walking quickly past him, finishing his sentence.
"-and Miss Elsa here to see you! Sorry, Smithers, you were taking too long."
Emma stands from the table, putting down her tea as Anna approaches her, Elsa shooting a quick apologetic smile at Smithers before following. Both he and Emma smile indulgently at Anna, shaking their heads, far too used to her excitability.
"Emma! We got this at the hospital today and I was going to put it away to give to you tomorrow but then I saw the postmark and just couldn't wait anymore and-"
A thin envelope is thrust into her hands, crisp to the touch if a little worn, dried mud and grass stains upon it from when it had perhaps been dropped upon the earth on its way to her, a soft shadow of a smell lingering upon it. Something smoky, something that reminds her of scorched earth and thundering guns.
But her eyes are fixed upon something else, the tips of her fingers tracing the ink, chasing the curves and dips of the gentle sweeping letters that form her name.
And on the other corner of the envelope, much smaller and firm, his.
Her heart is in her throat as she feels the weight of the letter in her hands. It feels heavy enough to pull her to her knees, her fingers itching to tear it open and read the words he wants her to hear. But Anna's expectant gaze and Elsa's half apologetic smile stop her, her family suddenly feeling intrusive, as though encroaching upon a moment, a conversation not meant for them.
"Well? Aren't you going to read it?"
Anna's voice pulls her out of her reverie, her hand jerking the letter away, pushing it quickly into a pocket in her dress. But before she can try to formulate an excuse, Elsa interrupts.
"Hush now, it's a private letter and I'm sure Emma will want to read it in private, no?"
"I-yes."
Anna looks taken aback for a moment before her smile is back and wide as ever.
"Of course. I'm sure! Captain Jones does seem like such a romantic!"
"Captain Jones?"
Her father's voice startles them all, her hand pushing the letter further into her pocket as she turns to face him, her cheeks unreasonably flushed.
"He's a patient," she says quickly, her lips almost stumbling over the words. She tries to speak before Anna has the chance to say anything else, to bring out into the real world the almost-feelings she keeps safe in the corners of her mind, hiding them from even herself.
She isn't ready for them to be spoken, to be shared, to be altered and changed by the voices of others, by the questions that would inevitably make her face them.
Her father moves to speak once more, his mouth opening and closing as he tries to find his words but a quick look from her mother is enough to silence him. He chooses instead to just nod and drop his line of questioning altogether.
There is a moment of terse silence as each of the people in the room try to determine the best way to break it. They wait, holding in all the questions and queries that ached to burst forth from their lips. But they don't have to wonder for long as Henry shoots a quick look at his mother before continuing with his story as though he had never been interrupted.
"They call it the roll of honour, grandpa-"
She lets out a grateful sigh even as she wonders again at how perceptive her son is, her eyes tracing his features fondly as she sits back down, hearing his voice but not truly listening.
Her thoughts instead go back again and again to the letter that lies heavily in her pockets.
No one at home asks about the letter, though she sees it in their gazes, in their half spoken sentences how much they want to.
She is glad, for her heart and the soft almost somethings she feels for Captain Jones are too fragile, too unsure for her to speak, for her to even consider for too long. She does not know them, does not know the curves and edges and the depths of them.
She does not yet know how to say his name.
After the morning she had left his house, she had come home and lied to her mother.
Told her that she had been asked to stay back at the hospital and that everyone was fine. The bombs had hit a few miles south of them and she was fine, she was fine, she was fine.
She had kept the chant up inside her head until she had begun to believe it. Captain Jones' face pushed to the back of her mind, his touch scrubbed away by the cold, anything to keep her belly from churning with worry for him, her heart ache with concern and something else she did not want to name. It terrified her, made her want to want things she knew she could not.
But despite her running, here he was, he had found her.
As she sits on the edge of her bed that night, his words tucked between her fingers, she knows that she could simply not read it, toss it in the fire and let the flames take him away and perhaps finally keep her heart from aching for-
Killian Jones
Her fingers trace his name on the corner of the envelope and she cannot help it. The smile that pulls at her lips, a strange, rusty feeling of excited anticipation churning in her belly, a warmth pulsing through her and she gives in.
She turns the envelope over and lingers upon the seal for only a moment, one more moment of doubt, before finally pulling it open.
Miss Swan,
I hope this letter finds you well. I realise that it might be a bit of a surprise to hear from me, but the lads decided last night that it had been entirely too long since they had written to their sweethearts and families and when we sat down with paper and ink, I found myself writing to you.
I hope Henry is healthy and happy and going to school. I think of him often here, surrounded by boys not much older than him. They are filled with a zeal and optimism I cannot seem to find within myself these days. Instead, I find myself thinking of you, of your hair in the sunlight, of the white of your apron, of the curve of your smile and I swear, it is what gets me through the day sometimes.
My arm seems to be faring well, your ointment tucked away safely in my pocket. The men are less fascinated by it here for they have seen this before, this place filled with people missing parts of themselves.
But it is a beautiful night and the stars shine almost as bright as they do in London and I am thinking of you.
I hope you will forgive me this small trespass and allow me to continue writing to you.
Your Lonely Soldier,
from Somewhere in France
The soft smile that has taken residence upon her face refuses to leave her her lips as though trapped in this expression of fondness as she traces over his words again.
I find myself thinking of you
The ink pools at the bottom of his letters there, thick little dots of colour that tell her that he'd held his pen down, thinking perhaps, wondering if he should. She can all but see him, his hand reaching behind his ear, a soft flush upon his feature before he speaks, his words low and sincere.
As she follows his letters upon the paper in her hands she wonders if writing makes one more brave, if the scratch of ink on paper is easier than making words leave lips. Perhaps it is the distance, perhaps it is being able to hide all the ways one's body gives one away, half smiles and fidgets that betray the strength and depth and true intentions of your words.
Or perhaps it is just that they all sit together on the edge of a cliff that is ready to collapse beneath them at any moment.
She wonders if she can be brave too.
"Emma?"
Her name and a soft knock on the door startle her, her hands rushing to hide the letter away instinctively, tucking it under her pillow before standing up to face the door. Cheeks flushed, heart racing, her words come out in a rush as she spots her mother standing just outside her door, holding it open just enough that she can look in.
"You're still up? I thought you'd gone to bed-"
Mary Margaret's eyes quickly move from Emma's pillow to her face as she opens the door fully and steps in.
"It's early yet," she pauses, her head cocking slightly as she searches Emma's eyes, a frown crinkling her brow, "Is everything alright? You left so quickly after dinner-"
Mary Margaret trails off, her hands fidgeting with the ring on her finger as she tries to find the words, her eyes moving back to Emma's pillow before quickly returning to her face.
"It's nothing. Just tired is all."
Emma feels the blood rush to her cheeks as she speaks, her hands clasped tightly behind her back itch to hide her face away, tuck the letter deeper under her pillow, hide the corner of the envelope that is peeking out, bright against her deep blue sheets. She feels caught, as if she were doing something she should not be.
Her mother only nods, her fingers continuing to twist her ring back and forth as her frown deepens. She takes a step forward, the bed between them, her mouth opening to say something but stopping abruptly.
This is absurd, Emma thinks, her hands clenching behind her back as she wills for her blush to disappear, as she wills for her body to realise that she is a grown woman who has spent so much of her life alone, that she does not need to feel this- whatever this is is- about hiding something from her mother.
Especially since she does it so very often anyway.
(But this is different, a voice whispers treacherously, you're only hiding this because it is about him, because this is important. He is-)
"If you ever need to talk about anything, you know that you can come to me-"
Mary Margaret's voice is low and sincere, her eyes searching Emma's as she takes another step forward, pulling Emma out of the twisting whirlpool of her own thoughts.
"Don't you?"
The question is uttered in a voice lower still, gentle and tentative. But her heart is still caught in a rush of conflicting emotion and she almost doesn't answer.
When she had first come here to this house that was too big, to this bed that was too soft, to this world where she could sleep warm and sated with a full belly every night, her mother had come to her just like this. She had seen the scared young woman in her home that was not her home yet and she had asked no questions, demanded no answers.
She had simply told Emma in a voice that ached to say more, that she would always be here. To talk, to listen, or perhaps to not talk if that was what Emma needed and just like that, though she had only just met her, Emma had felt her first spark of home.
Her voice is a little hoarse but the words come out all the same, a smile slowly pulling at her lips even as her heart calms.
"I do, mom. I do."
Mary Margaret returns her smile with one that is far brighter.
"Good. Get some sleep, okay?"
Emma simply nods, reaching her hand across the bed to squeeze Mary Margaret's before her mother takes her leave, the door clicking softly shut after her.
Emma falls back onto her bed with a soft thump, her pillow rising softly, the edge of the envelope poking insistently at her forearm and almost instantly, the soft calm that had descended upon her, retreats.
Her eyes squeeze shut even as his words begin once again to run softly though her mind.
I find myself thinking of you.
What could she possibly say to-
Perhaps she will be brave.
But as she falls asleep that night, his still unanswered letter beneath her pillow both a weight and a comfort, she resigns herself to the fact that it would not be this night.
Or, as it happens, the night after that.
Or the one after that.
The letter lives in the drawer beside her bed, or tucked under her pillow when her day has been particularly difficult. She has read and reread, traced all the letters that make the words he's written her a hundred times, thought about writing back twice as much. But every time she starts to write, she fumbles, her words always too trite, too sweet, too rough, too soft.
But even so, she settles into it and slowly, the letter and all ways in which she thinks and doesn't think of him start to become normal. Comfortable. Almost immovable in their constancy. As though, if she never writes him back, they could both live in the comfort and anticipation of what could be. They could breathe soft in the potential, in the sweet almosts that lived in their hearts. As though the world would be content to wait for her while she gently cupped the slow beginnings of a flame in her heart.
But the war is built upon shaky earth and thundering skies, and the lull does not last, her world coming crashing down with a quiet rip in a sheet of paper.
One of the starlings' wings has a rip in it from where it joins to its body, cutting diagonally across. A bloodless gash made by a careless toss of keys into the pocket where the drawing lived. The drawing that he had made her.
The injury doesn't affect the bird on the paper as it continues on its way but Emma's fingers shake as she runs them along the tear. The fire she is sitting by warms her even as her fingers feel icy cold, turning the page over in her hands, tracing the tear again on the other side.
Somewhere, somehow, she had begun to believe that it was untouchable. That the thin sheet of paper, folded over many many times, with creases that sliced through the birds upon it, was untouchable. That it could not get hurt, simply because it had not gotten hurt yet.
And somewhere somehow, she had begun to believe him untouchable too.
She spends her days at a hospital, at a place where there is evidence aplenty of what the war can do, of what people can truly do when they are asked to hurt one another, where she has seen mothers and wives and sisters mourn for the men they have lost at the front, the men they had loved.
But she had thought-
She had no one in such danger, had she?
Her son and her father both, safe at home.
Surely, she did not-
But the tears that drip softly down her face as she smooths the small paintings against her skirt, trying to make the birds lay flat, say otherwise. He had become a part of her world and she hadn't even noticed. His letter under her pillow, his paintings in her pocket, the memory of her own face smiling back at her from a painting in a candlelit basement.
Somewhere somehow, she had begun to think herself untouchable too. For as long as she did not admit, did not acknowledge or consider that she cared- she could not be hurt. But she had not known the secrets her heart had kept from her, only learning now as a tiny tear in a sheet of paper has her undone.
The war goes on and time waits for no one, and as her fingers smooth the last crease on a starling's open beak, she decides that it is time she stops waiting too.
When she finally begins to write that night, the words that come out of her pen are hesitant.
They seem too little or far too much, the ink from her pen bleeding out the thoughts and feelings she hides most, spilling onto the paper in a rush of feeling that hasn't gone away since the afternoon. Though she has begun to admit to herself, to her heart that she cares for this man whose smiles feel like sunlight, her heart is rusted and shoddily patched up in all the places it had been broken, unable yet, to let its walls down.
But eventually, in stops and starts, in many a crumpled sheet of paper thrown at the wall, in scribbles covering words and drops of ink dotting the paper, she writes her reply.
Captain Jones,
We are well, thank you for asking. Henry is going to school for the moment but he talks of enlisting more and more each day and it has begun to worry me.
I hope that your sketches are coming along and that you've been able to paint. I hear that France is beautiful this time of year.
The stars are hiding behind their ever present curtain of smoke tonight, just like always, but I hope they shine bright for you where you are.
Regards,
Emma Swan
Etaples Base Camp, France
Spring, 1916
The letter is short.
Some might even say perfunctory. But, it does not seem that way to him. It gives him a tether to a place and a person that he dares to dream are his home on nights when the stars hide and red stains the edges of his vision.
He has read and reread the scant lines she had written to him, searching for something he does not know in the stumbling lines of ink upon the page. But, it matters not that he finds it, for at least he has this. He has her words, the shadow of her touch tucked in his hand. He has the quiet signs that she trusts him. Her name, her words, her home address scribbled on the corner of the envelope. They are enough to give him all the courage he needs to write to her once more.
He sits in the rest hut, surrounded by the low murmur of conversation of his fellow soldiers, rereading her letter for what feels simultaneously like the hundredth time and the first, when he sees her. It is as though she appears on the page before him, hunched over a desk by a window, the moon shining through sheer curtains as she sits with pen and ink to write to him. Her brow is scrunched in concentration, her pen tapping against the paper as she thinks, a tiny smile curving her lips when she finally finds the right words.
And he is struck with an urge he cannot ignore.
He flips over the page, reaching for the pencil tucked behind his ear and he begins to draw her.
He traces the curves and edges of her as she sits upon his page, his own smile growing as he sketches hers, a rush of warmth filling him as he maps out her eyes.
He pulls away for a moment, once his initial flurry of inspiration calms, to look at her. Something is not quite right, he thinks, his eyes running over the edge of her and around before he realises that he'd gotten the angle of her nose wrong.
But before he can reach down to fix it-
"Captain, she's gorgeous. Is she your-?"
"Bloody hell, lad! Give a man some warning would you?" Killian's words come out in an exclamation. Graham's voice from behind him pulls him abruptly from trying to figure out the curve of Emma's nose as he struggles to answer.
Graham looks chagrined as he comes around to face him, "Sorry, didn't mean to startle you."
"Quite alright," Killian's voice is a mumble as he tries to discreetly sweep the letter off the table, folding it into squares, his head bent low.
Graham cocks his head to the side, watching him, a quick smile gracing his lips.
"You didn't answer my question, Captain."
Killian raises his eyebrow, looking up at Graham, who has now taken the seat opposite him.
There is an exhaustion about the boy's face, about his countenance. No doubt from the grueling marching, from the cramped quarters, from the nights filled with shelling. But even so, there is still a spark of something in his eyes as he waits for Killian to answer, a happy edge to his tired smile.
Killian almost wishes he had a better answer than the one he is about to give.
"Would that I could. But the truth is, I'm not sure myself."
He wonders if he sounds as wistful as he feels, as filled with a wanting he is still afraid of.
"I understand. I used to be the same," Graham says.
Killian settles into his chair, his fingers fiddling with the folded letter as Graham continues speaking, his words a happy sigh upon his lips, his eyes brighter now as he speaks of the woman he loves. Killian cannot help but smile at the idea that despite the thunderous shells that fill the night, despite the training and the fallen comrades, there is still room in the boy's heart to feel something as sweet as this.
"I never knew if she wanted me or not. She was-is-" Graham smiles then, a smile that takes all the years he has accumulated in this camp off him, soft and young and happy, "- my best friend. It didn't really hit me until she was standing in front of me at the station, tears in her eyes and everything and I just-"
He stops for a moment, his eyes suddenly far away as Killian watches from his seat, his own smile growing.
"I asked her to marry me right there and she said yes- just like that!"
Killian laughs at the wonder, the quiet awe in Graham's voice, a low and joyful sound leaving his lips as he tucks Emma's letter into his pocket, patting it against his heart for a moment before reaching down into the open bag that lay at his side.
"I assume this is the same woman you told me about last time we spoke- Ruby?"
Graham jumps as though woken from a dream, his eyes refocusing on Killian before knitting into a frown as he watches the other man rummage through his bag.
"Yes."
A beat.
"Captain, what are you doing?"
"Just a minute, I can't seem to find my bloody- ah! There it is!"
He pulls out a small notebook, smaller than the book he carries around when he's sketching the men for his paintings. This one is personal, meant for sketching the river at sunset with the fishing fleet coming home, the sails on the boats reflected clearly in still waters, to draw the fields of tulips, the market that ran here every weekend.
He flips through a few pages before turning back to Graham, his pencil poised on the page.
"I wonder if you would describe her for me. I could-" he looks down at his notebook before looking up at Graham once more.
"Would you?"
His eyes are bright with excitement as he asks, as though in disbelief that Killian would draw him his sweetheart.
"I would most certainly try."
Graham sits up straight, scraping his chair closer to Killian's before starting to speak again.
"She is fire itself. Her hair dark and her eyes like- like- I don't know what they're like, Captain. But I swear I could live in them and she makes amazing gingernut biscuits. She's sent me some last week, they're a bit stale now but still brilliant. I'll bring you some tomorrow."
Killian chuckles and speaks through his smile.
"Thank you, I'd quite enjoy that but let's maybe talk about the shape of her eyes?"
"Oh, of course. They're a bit like almonds maybe? But bigger, you know?"
Another laugh as he touches the letter in his jacket one last time, before starting to draw.
Miss Swan,
I thank you for taking the time to write back to me. It means so much more than you know and I do appreciate it.
I hope you and Henry are doing well.
France really is quite beautiful, more so when I imagine how it might look when graced with your smile. But in all sincerity, there are tulips of every imaginable colour by the hill where I sit to write to you. There is a river before me, a sea beyond that and you beyond the sea.
A man could not ask for a better view.
The men, though initially quite apprehensive of me- Can't imagine why! I like to think of myself as a fairly charming man. Would you agree Miss Swan?- have since warmed up to me and found that a good description and some conversation is all one needs to bribe me.
I draw them portraits of their sweethearts back home. Soft smiles and clever eyes live upon my pages alongside sketches of the boys drilling, of the parades in the streets of the camp, of the stern Generals that command us all.
There is a young soldier here, Graham Humbert, who has become somewhat of a friend to me. He is a somber sort of fellow, not much for idle chatter or joking about with the lads but he is a good man and good company. We often talk in the evenings and though he is usually as quiet as a mouse, his eyes absolutely sparkle, as does his voice when he talks about his fiancé.
They are newly engaged and he is absolutely besotted with her. He writes her every single day! I would wonder if she doesn't tire of him but for the fresh letter, sometimes two that arrive almost every other day. Usually packed with a little token of affection, a button from her tunic, a pressed flower and his eyes just shine with love for her.
Seeing him gives me some kind of hope. I am not sure that it is wise or prudent or appropriate to feel hopeful in days like these where we are all so tired. But, then again, perhaps this is the perfect time for us to feel these things.
I have tucked the most delicate of the tulips by my side into this letter in the hopes that it may help you feel some too.
Yours,
Killian Jones
London, England
Spring, 1916
Her feet make unpleasant, wet sounds as she runs through the park, mud splattering on her dress up to her knees. Her purse is held above her head but it provides minimal protection from the rain that had suddenly decided to blow through the city just as she'd gotten off the train. No umbrella in hand.
"Goddamnit," she mutters, one foot sinking into a puddle even as she removes one hand from her purse to sink her hand into her pocket, checking again to make sure that the letter stuffed in there was dry.
It had been a rushed morning, one of those days where it seemed that everything she did was was just five minutes too late. She'd burned her tongue on her tea, just missed kissing Henry goodbye as he'd run off to school, forgotten her umbrella in London, where the weather cared not if it was winter or spring or summer for it loved the rain in any season.
The only thing that she hadn't missed was the postman, catching him on her way out as he'd waved and said that he had a letter for her from the front.
He'd written back.
And just like that, her day had brightened just a little bit. She'd walked fast to the station, afraid of having missed her train to the city and eager to have a moment of peace in which to read the letter clutched tightly in her hand. But the universe had not deemed it so, for she had run into a friend of her mother's on her train, forced then to make small talk even as she'd pressed the letter into her pocket, her fingers tracing the edges as she spoke.
And now, the rain.
The muddy ground of the park changes to the pavement, her feet slowing as she tries not to slip on the slick stones, her purse lowering as she walks the last stretch to the entrance of the hospital.
Her purse swings to her side, her hands wrapping around herself as the cold wind hits her face, her shoulders rising in a quiet shiver.
"Emma!"
Anna stands by the door, umbrella in her hand, quickly making her way to Emma's side, raising the shade above their heads as she meets her.
"Thanks, Anna. I forgot my umbrella."
"I can tell."
Emma's eyes are on the ground as she lifts her dress a bit to assess the damage that the mud in the park had done, but she still hears the laugh in Anna's voice, looking up to glare at her before looking away once more.
Anna only laughs louder in response.
Emma's hand sinks once more into her pocket, pressing the still sealed letter between her fingers, hoping that she would have a moment to herself to read it soon before beginning to walk.
She had hoped for too much for as soon as she and Anna had stepped into the hospital, they had been met with chaos.
A convoy had arrived the night before, a new batch of injured men being treated, operated on, and passed on to recovery rooms. The nurses on shift since last night had not left, rushing between the halls with their wimples flying out behind them as stretchers rolled between them, moans and screams filling the rooms.
Emma picks up her pace as she walks into the chaos, nodding a quick goodbye to Anna as she goes, running to the locker room to get her uniform on as quickly as possible, to be prepared to assist as quickly as possible.
But even as she takes her coat off to replace it with her apron, she remembers to put the letter in the tiny pocket of her apron, carrying it with her as she goes to find the head nurse on duty.
(Carrying him with her.)
The letter lives in her pocket unopened for much longer than she had anticipated.
The hours since she had entered the hospital had been spent in a frantic run from patient to patient, nurse to doctor, to help in any way that she could.
But her hands reach for the stiff edges of the envelope every time the faces on the operating table are too young, every time she holds someone's hand as they say goodbye to loved ones who aren't there, every time her tears threaten to betray her. The promise of his words, his presence somehow made real, keeps her from buckling all day even as patient after patient, man after man, loss after loss makes her heart feel as though it will burst at the seams. The letter tucked away in her apron, close enough to touch, reminds her that there is an after. That after whatever happens today, she will have his words. That after today, there would be more.
It takes well over twelve hours before they are done for the day. The sun is beginning to set as the last of the injured men are led to their beds, as the last of the doctors, nurses and VADs emerge from operating rooms and examinations. They walk bleary eyed and exhausted through nearly silent hallways, their shoulders slumping just a bit as they finally let themselves slow down after a day spent racing frantically against the clock, against bullets and poison and the tired and failing wills of men.
Emma walks slowly through one such hallway, her arm looped around Anna's as she leans on the other woman's shoulder, her gloves stained with blood, her apron covered in little flecks of red. Her shoulder sinks deeper into Anna's, holding herself upright even as all she wants to do is fall to her knees. Anna is quiet as well, her hair falling about in wisps, her eyes heavy with exhaustion as she leans on Emma as much as Emma leans on her.
"Emma?"
Anna sighs, shuffling her feet along the floor as they turn the corner, her hand reaching out to open the door that leads out to the main reception hall of the hospital, the quiet of the hallways already broken by the murmur of activity beyond.
"Hmm?"
"Did you ever-"
Anna never finishes her sentence for as soon as they cross the threshold, they hear her.
"Please miss, you must have seen him. He's so very tall, his hair is practically bright red. I saw his name in the paper this morning but surely, they must mean someone else because he couldn't have-"
Anna stiffens beside her, her hand slipping from around hers as they take in the scene.
A woman stands by the reception desk. The room is quieter and more empty than it is during the day but every eye in the room is trained on the woman. She is older, her blonde hair speckled with grey, tied into a braid that has begun to unravel.
She stands beside a VAD nurse, holding onto the other woman's hands tightly as she speaks in quick bursts, her breathing shallow and her voice shaking with barely restrained sobs. Her eyes shine with tears that have already begun to drip quietly down her face.
"I'm sorry, ma'am. There's only one Eric here and he's as blonde as they come. Would you like to sit down? I could get you some water?"
The VAD has her back to them but Emma hears the softness in her voice, the way she squeezes the woman's hands in reassurance, turning to try and lead her to a chair but she doesn't quite make it, the older woman stopping as soon as she's taken a few steps-
"You must have missed him! There's so many Erics, someone must have taken down the wrong name. Miss-"
"Lucas. Mrs Smythe, please, I've already checked with our records and the head nurse and there's no-"
The woman keeps shaking her head as the VAD replies, letting go of her hand to press hers to her mouth as a sob escapes her, her tears falling freely now.
"He can't have- Oh God, no, please-"
She stops speaking then, her tears speaking for her as she finally allows the VAD to lead her to a chair nearby, her shoulders shaking with sobs. Emma feels as though she cannot look away, her eyes following the woman as she sits, her head still shaking, refusing to believe what Miss Lucas was telling her.
"Emma?"
Anna's mumble of her name pulls her away from the scene, her eyes looking up at Anna in confusion even as the other woman is silent, waiting and looking at her as though she'd asked Emma a question.
"I'm sorry, did you say something?"
Her voice comes out on a gasp and it is then that Emma realises that she's been holding her breath. Her hands are clenched at her side, her jaw locked, her heart pounding a rapid rhythm, drowning out the sound in the room.
"I did- I-" Anna frowns for a moment before shaking her head and continuing, "I was just saying how horrible it is. She's been here three times already today."
She nods her head towards the woman now speaking to Miss Lucas once more.
"What a day for our new girl too. Ruby just came in this morning and-"
Anna's voice seems to disappear, a rushing sound taking its place as she watches the young woman try and comfort Mrs Smythe. Holding her hand still, she leans forward, trying to meet the older woman's eyes even as she looks at the floor, her head still shaking in denial, her words incoherent. Miss Lucas speaks again, her voice low and measured.
"Could I fetch someone to take you home? Maybe send a message to Mr Smythe? He must be so worried."
Mrs Smythe doesn't answer, her shoulders still shaking with tears, her voice inaudible as she mumbles something. Emma's hand closes into a fist once more, her nails digging into her palms. She takes a deep breath, pulling herself away from the moment, shaking her head before she tries to speak to Anna with some measure of composure.
"She's handling it pretty well."
Miss Lucas leans closer still to the older woman, her voice too low now to make out.
"Yeah, she is."
Anna's voice seems far away as Mrs Fisher chooses that moment to speak audibly once more.
"You don't understand. There isn't a Mr Smythe, Eric is all I have. He's my son, my baby. He wasn't made for-" her voice hitches, a sob escaping as she shakes her head, "-for this. For fighting this war."
She lets go of Miss Lucas' hand, hastily wiping away her tears before turning to face the other woman more fully.
"He wanted to be a teacher," she laughs then, a small bitter thing from the back of her throat, her words broken by hiccups as she speaks, "He talked all the time about wanting to make a difference and he was only eighteen."
She reaches out to grip Miss Lucas' hands again.
"He was only eighteen Miss Lucas, how is that fair?"
She looks to the VAD for an answer, her shoulders shaking once more but the younger woman has none. She only squeezes Mrs Smythe's hands for a moment, Emma watching as Miss Lucas' own tears begin to fall.
And it is the last straw of a very long day.
Emma presses her eyes closed for a moment, her knuckles white from clenching so hard.
"I have to-"
She doesn't finish her sentence, turning away to walk quickly back into the hospital through the doors from which she had just entered the reception, ignoring Anna's concerned shout of her name from behind the slamming door.
Her steps all but echo in the hallways as she walks, her pace quickening the further she gets, taking turn after turn until she reaches an empty exam room. The door slams open as she steps inside, her throat tight, her chest tight, as though a weight were tied to it, pulling her to the ground.
She lets the feeling take her as she shuts the door before letting herself slide against it to sit on the floor. Her knees drawn up to her chest, her arms wrapped around them, she presses her face to her skirt and takes a few deep breaths, willing her heart to beat slower, willing the blood rushing through her ears to cease.
The room is dark, the curtains pulled shut by the last person who had been in here. But the darkness, the cold floor, the faint smell of antiseptic, all ground her. They bring her back to the present.
She is here. She is safe.
Henry.
Henry is safe.
But her mind is like a wounded animal, frantic and afraid, it runs rampant in its spirals of images that make her breathing quicken once more.
Henry Mills listed in the newspaper under Casualties. Mary Margaret's sobbing shoulders against the open window in the parlour even as David stands beside her, his own head bowed in despair. She standing alone in the hospital as she waits to hear about him. She, alone in her big house. Alone, alone-
Henry on the operating table. Henry covered in blood. Henry covered in mud and soot and coughing, coughing. He can't breathe. It's the gas, it's in his lungs and he can't breathe, he can't breathe-
She can't breathe.
Her arms get tighter around herself as she pulls her knees closer. Her vision blurs, her heart hurts. The lump in her throat feels like it might strangle her until finally, the first gasping sob escapes her.
And she lets herself cry.
She lets herself shake and hiccup and cough through the pain that feels like it is stabbing at her skin from the inside out, her hands on her face as she lets the door of the exam room hold her upright.
She repeats to herself again and again.
Henry is safe. He is safe. He is at home. The war will end some day. The war will end.
It will end. It will end. It will end.
(I am not alone.)
But the stabbing pain doesn't stop. Not until she has cried for what feels like hours, her throat dry, her eyes burning, her cheeks tight from dried tears, as the last of her sobs shiver through her body. She feels oddly numb, her skin buzzing with aftershocks even as her mind finally begins to slow, pushing her fears away for the moment.
She lets her knees go, stretching her legs onto the floor, leaning her head back against the door as she wipes away the tears on her face, her eyes open to the bare ceiling above. Her hands drop to her stomach and that's when she feels it.
She had all but forgotten about the letter in her pocket, the little envelope that still waits for her, sealed and hidden away.
And she smiles, a tiny glimmer of a thing, gone before you'd even know it was there. Her hand reaches into her apron to pull it out, her fingers running over the tiny indentations made by the ink as he'd written her address.
She pushes herself to standing, reaching for the light switch, her hands already working at the seal of the envelope as the light above her flickers on.
She pulls the folded piece of paper out and as she unfolds it, a tiny tulip flutters onto the floor. Bright yellow and only slightly wilted, it had been pressed into the letter, the imprint of its colour on the paper. She picks it up slowly, her smile growing wider even as a few stray tears drip down her face. She spins it between her fingers by the stem, her eyes following his words.
Perhaps there is hope yet.
Captain Jones,
I thank you for your letter and the little piece of France you have sent me.
Henry and the family are well, as am I, thank you for asking. I hope you are doing alright as well.
Hope seems a dream on days like this, but sometimes, when I see my son laugh as he throws a ball around with other children, when I see my parents, together still after decades and wars, when I receive a slightly wilted flower in the post, it feels a little less unattainable.
I have sent a small box with this letter. It contains a few things, ointments and bandages in case you might need them. I am sure there is a hospital of some kind where you are but I thought these might help all the same.
I apologise that I am not too good with my words for perhaps you deserve a longer letter than this. But I hope it is enough that you know, I wish only that you be well and am happy to hear from you again.
Regards,
Emma Swan
Etaples Base Camp, France
Spring, 1916
There is an unease that has found its home in his bones, it pulls at his stomach like a stone, it pricks at his skin like a thousand knives and it seems that there is nothing he can do to alleviate it.
He sits alone in the corner of the rest hut, trying his best to not be seen, his head tilted back into his chair, hand wrapped around a big cup of tea as he tries to warm himself, a crumpled sheet of paper lying by his wrist. He had spent the day at General Headquarters, made his way to Montreuil to start work on the portraits of some of the officers that he'd been asked to do.
The town lies along the same river that runs along the edge of the camp and though they are so close in distance, so similar in their geography, the town is nothing like the camp. Further away from the front, the colourful town is spacious, its streets lined with sweet smelling blooms. A far cry from the narrow, cramped and filthy streets of the small town of Etaples. A far cry from the endless marching on the dunes, from the gas training, the bayonet drills of the camp. Chiefly meant for officers, the men stationed there looked healthier, stronger than the faces he had left behind at the mess that morning even if they carried the same uncertain gleam of homesickness in their eyes.
And as he had sat there sketching the outlines of an officer, his pencil making quick strokes in his notebook, his subject sitting still opposite him, Killian's mind had wandered back to the lads at camp. With faces growing more haggard each day, with voices dimming, with lines growing more pronounced on their skin, the boys he had begun to know were growing older, growing more tired with each day spent in the bullring training, with each night spent awake in cramped chambers listening to the sound of thunder from the front.
A fear builds in each of them, an exhaustion writes itself into their bones.
Far removed from the pretty streets of Montreuil-sur-mer.
He had made his way back to camp later that evening, a notebook full of sketches to put to colour and an envelope with orders for his next posting, further up the line, somewhere along the Western Front. His feet restless, his heart uneasy with thoughts he could not put into words, eventually, he had found himself here, sitting alone, reading over the words again and again, his mind going around in circles even as his heart sank to his stomach.
He moves to take a sip of his tea when the door of the hut opens, a sharp gust of wind winding around the room as a small group of soldiers enter. Their uniforms are creased, their shoulders slumped as they mumble their way across the floor to an empty table. Their pale faces and the occasional cough give away that they had just returned from gas training. Killian recognises a few of the lads from Graham's battalion when he had last spent an evening with them, drawing for them as they sat around a table, sharing stories of home.
And as he watches them, the truth that had been gnawing at him all day suddenly makes itself known.
That no matter how many evenings he spent with them, no matter how many stories they had begun to tell him, there was a wall between them. A clear separation that told him that, despite the fact that he had once been at war, in this one, when the boys would be out on the battlefield fighting fire and metal and poison, he would not. That, despite the fact that he would be beside them, that he could as easily die as one of them, it would not be the same. For he would merely be an observer, a passive part of the scene, ordered to only record, not participate.
There is no will, no feeling or wish in his heart that he may fight alongside them, for he knows that on the other side of the field are only more boys just like the ones who sit in front of him now. He wishes rather, that he could send these boys home to their mothers, their sweethearts that awaited them. He wishes that he could do something, anything, be useful in a way that meant something. His heart grows more and more unsettled-
"Captain Jones?"
Killian is startled, his eyes pulling away from the boys at the table to Graham standing in front of him. So lost in his thoughts, he had missed Graham entering the hut entirely.
"Bloody hell, lad. You're making a habit of this."
Graham's lips curve up in a poor imitation of a smile as he slumps into the seat opposite Killian, his face carrying the same blank exhaustion as everyone else here. Leaning back against the chair, he reaches into the pockets in his coat to pull out a small package before placing it in front of Killian.
"I picked up your post today."
A small box wrapped in brown paper sits in front of him, a letter tied to the top of it. It is a little thing but Killian already knows, an anticipation building in his belly that pulls a tiny smile from his face as he draws it closer, already searching for her name on the top.
Emma Swan.
Graham chuckles as Killian runs his fingers along the twine that ties the package together, his eyes tracing her handwriting on the envelope.
"Thank you," Killian says, his hand closing around the box as he bends to tuck it into his bag to read later, when he is alone and free to savour each word.
"Of course."
His momentary rush of joy all but sinks as he sits back in his chair and sees Graham pick up the sheet of paper that Killian had left on the table. His orders for transfer to the front.
"Are you coming next week too?"
Graham's voice grows quiet, his eyes flashing quickly up to Killian's as he lets go of the sheet.
"Aye."
Graham nods, his shoulders sinking back into his chair and Killian sees the same unease that he carries around in his heart reflected in the eyes of the man in front of him. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a flask, turning over the inverted empty tea cup in front of Graham to pour him a measure of rum.
"I snagged some of the good stuff when I was at GHQ today. I think we deserve it."
Another chuckle from Graham as he leans forward to pick up the cup, raising it even as Killian pours himself one.
"To King and Country," Graham says, his smile a strained thing.
Killian's mind flashes back to another day, another raised glass, a pair of green eyes at Christmas.
"To going home someday."
He swats his arm vaguely by his ear, stopping the insistent buzzing noise from whatever insect was flying near it.
The evenings had begun to grow warmer and though the receding cold had raised more than a few spirits around the camp, the insects that had arrived with the heat had only raised tempers.
But despite the near constant buzzing somewhere on his person, the wet grass underneath him, the rough bark digging into his back as he sits under his tree by the hospital, he cannot help the wide smile that stretches across his face as he reads Emma's letter again.
He'd come here soon after his drink with Graham, excusing himself before making his way to the tree, following the sun as it had slowly made its way down for the night. It now floats just above the edge of the ocean in the distance, shining sharply in his direction as he holds the letter up against his eyes, her letters little shadows against the light.
Though her words are few, he cannot help but trace the edges of them over and over as if he were part of a conversation so sweet, he did not want it to end. As if she were whispering her words to him even as he sat across the ocean from her.
I wish only that you be well
His thumb runs over the corners of her looping L's as he sinks deeper against the tree, his head leaning back against the rough bark, reading her words again as though hoping that he could sink into the space between them to hear her say them instead.
He can all but see her smiling eyes as she thanks him for the only slightly wilted flower, a chuckle leaving him even as his eyes close, the letter lowering to his lap, his shoulder protesting at holding his arm up for so long.
He tries to remember her laugh, the way her eyes sparkle when she does, the way she shakes her head, her hair tumbling behind her as he spins her around the room once more. But it has been too long now that he has heard it, too long now that he hasn't seen her.
Her image is blurry at best, just a little off from what had been, just a little too long in the nose, just a little too full in the lips. It's been too long and she seems to be slipping away from him.
Eyes opening, brows knit into a frown, his left arm takes his hand's place in holding the letter in his lap even as he straightens against the tree to reach down into his bag to pull out his pencil, the space on the back of her letter ample to try and capture her laugh once more.
But before he can, his sudden movement jostles his bag leaning against his side, turning it over as it spills softly down the slope of the hill.
He curses softly as he bends to grab it by the strap, falling short by a little as he tries to keep the letter from floating away on the wind, holding it against his lap by his wrist. He sits back against the tree once more, picking up the letter, folding it in half and tucking it quickly into his pocket. Secure in the safety of the letter, he gets on his knees, pulling his bag back to solid ground beside him with a grunt before reaching down lower to pick up his sketchbook, the few pencils and a pen that had spilled out.
He stuffs it all impatiently into his bag, cursing again even as he tries to ignore the familiar twinge of bitterness he feels in his heart every time he is reminded of his injury and how much it truly affects him. He begins to stand, the growing darkness and the struggle with his bag enough of a disruption to urge him to move. He sighs deeply as he takes one last look at the ocean before turning away.
His feet make imprints in the grass, pushing it down as he walks, his eyes trailing along the short blades up the slope, green slowly turning to white as he gazes out at the line of hospital tents. The sounds from the hospital grow louder as he gets closer, muffled shouting now much clearer, the soft blurred figure moving between the tents much sharper. He watches as a stretcher is pulled out of one tent, the men that carry it bending slightly at the knees as they move the unconscious soldier upon it along the line.
A group of nurses gathers under a tree, standing by the tent closest to the road, a soft circle of blue and red against the white. A blonde woman leans against the tree, pulling at the edges of her head dress to straighten it, two stand with their backs to him and a red haired woman leans softly against the tent. He idly watches their faces as they speak, flipping from one to the next, studying their expressions. Their faces slowly change as the woman against the tree starts speaking, the other nurses' heads turning to face her, their drooping shoulders rising as they listen, their smiles growing as she continues.
Right to left, his eyes go, his footsteps slow as he makes his way up the slope to the road. Right to left, until suddenly, he sees a pair of eyes staring straight back at him. He lowers his gaze quickly, hand going up to scratch behind his neck even as blood rushes to his cheeks.
He looks up again slowly and all but stops in his tracks as the woman who had caught him watching is making her way rapidly towards him. The woman by the tree calls out to her and she turns back for a second to shout a response that Killian can't make out before continuing on her way to him.
He slows his own pace as she walks faster, a smile on her face as she waves at him. He frowns as they get closer, her smile dropping away at the look on his face as they finally come to a stop in the middle of the road opposite the hospital.
"Hello."
Her voice is bright if soft, her eyes meeting his as she waits for him to respond.
"Hello?"
His voice rises up at the end of the word as though it were a question, frown melting into confusion. The nurse shakes her head, her wimple moving quickly from side to side as she extends her hand towards Killian.
"Oh! Sorry, you don't know me. I'm Ariel Fisher. I'm a nurse at the hospital."
"Nice to meet you Miss Fisher. Killian Jones," he extends his own hand, shaking hers briefly before letting go, his voice still low and carrying a hint of a question.
"Mrs, actually. My husband is a doctor here."
She smiles quickly, turning to gesture at the hospital as she speaks.
"Apologies. Mrs Fisher, then."
"No, it's alright. It was me who surprised you."
She chuckles softly then, his own lips curving softly in response and he watches her fumble a little for her next words before speaking quickly, her fingers fidgeting with the ends of the sleeves of her dress.
"I don't want to overstep but I was just wondering why you weren't using a prosthesis for your-"
She gestures at his arm by his side, looking away quickly to meet his eyes instead, her gaze earnest as she waits for his answer. His smile fades a little as he looks quickly down to his arm, his wrist ending abruptly where it emerges from his sleeve.
He had one, of course. The government had been happy to issue him a replacement for his hand. A metal hook to cover his injury, connected to a large strap on his shoulder. They had trained him too, tried to teach him how to use it. But, he hadn't felt like cooperating too much at the time, his heart too broken, his spirit too bruised by how grandly the government, his Admiral had failed him, had taken his brother from him. So, eventually they had given up, releasing him from the convalescent home with his prosthetic in his bag.
He had brought it here, though. Despite how much he had despised it at first, despite how much it had felt like a hollow act of recompense, despite how much it had hurt to put it on- his injury feeling as though it were on fire- he had brought it with him. Just in case.
But did he want to-
"Captain?"
Ariel meets his eyes as he looks up again.
"I'm sorry, Captain. I didn't mean to-"
Perhaps on another day, with another person, he may have felt that twinge of resentment, of anger, at the question. But not today, it seems, Ariel's voice too sweet, her eyes too sincere for him to suspect anything other than good intent.
"No, it's alright. I just didn't find it very comfortable, I'm afraid."
"Of course! I'm sorry. I only asked because, if you need any help with fitting it or anything like that, I could help. I used to work at Queen Mary's back home and I've done it before- So-"
She trails away, her shoulder rising in a shrug as she smiles at him, hoping perhaps that he understands what she's trying to say despite her stumbling words.
He smiles too, his voice warm as he answers.
"I'll keep that in mind. Thank you for the offer, Mrs Fisher."
She shakes her head once more.
"No, no. Please call me Ariel."
"Okay, Ariel then."
She smiles at him again, satisfied, nodding her head at him before turning away to go back to her friends.
Miss Swan,
I thank you for your gifts, they are most useful and I will treasure them.
I am doing as well as one may hope. My heart wishes that I were anywhere else but I got word today that I am to go to the front soon. As early as next week. They want pictures of the trenches and our boys out there protecting the nation and all of that. And as always, I stand with pencil and brush, ready to serve.
But the boys are getting antsy. I am going to be accompanying Graham and his battalion as it turns out. I am both glad and dreading it for though it will be good to have a few familiar faces around, I worry for the day that a familiar face might not return from a fight.
Have I told you about my favourite spot at the camp? I may have mentioned it earlier but it's just beautiful. Flowers down the slope of a hill that stands by a river that flows into an ocean. All visible from under my favourite tree by the General Hospital tents. Oh! But I could draw you a little picture. It won't truly capture the beauty of the place, but will do in a pinch.
I bring it up now because it's where I usually write to you from, it's where I come to think, to breathe. It's also where I was when I met a lovely woman who works at the hospital as a nurse. Her name is Ariel and she has hair as red as your friend Anna's and I feel like she talks about as quickly. She came up to me today and asked why I didn't use my issued prosthetic. It was well intentioned, of course. She just wanted to know if I was having any trouble with it and that she could help if I needed.
But, it's just made me thin-
Apologies, it seems that I have run out of ink in the middle of a word. I hope this pencil will suffice for the rest of this letter for I don't think I am prepared to end this conversation yet. You are such lovely company, after all.
Like I was saying, it's made me think about my hand and if I should perhaps try and get used to the prosthetic. Perhaps it will be useful at the front. Perhaps, I will be useful at the front. I feel more and more like a passive observer of something terrible, standing by while other men, far better than I, lay down their lives.
But I digress. I am sorry if I have been a little too desultory in my words today.
I thank you again for writing to me. It is a sweet tether to something that feels like home and I am grateful.
Yours,
Killian Jones
London, England
Spring, 1916
She reads his letter in the parlour immediately after the postman takes his leave. Unable and unwilling to wait, her breakfast lies abandoned and cooling on her plate in the dining room, her cup of tea hastily picked up, sits beside her on a small table.
She stands by the window, the sun a little dim today as the sky prepares to rain but still shining through the glass onto his words on the page. Though he has only written to her a handful of times, she finds that the flush of warmth in her chest, the small smile on her face, the rush of anticipation have become familiar friends that accompany his words. She feels young and foolish, her heart pounding over a few words of thanks, a cheeky compliment or two.
She chuckles softly as she reads, fingers running over the ink where he'd drawn her a little picture of his favourite spot. It looks as stunning as he'd said. But as she reads on, her heart stutters for a moment, as she mouths the name of the woman he'd mentioned.
She cannot remember the last time she had felt such a pang in her chest, this sinking of her belly even as her cheeks flush in embarrassment at her own reaction. Envy is an emotion that Emma has always been familiar with, her young heart left alone too long, broken and abandoned and betrayed too often. She had always felt a twinge of jealousy when she had seen other children with their families, other mothers with their babies. The feeling sharp and acute after she had had her own childhood stolen away and hadn't been around when her son had had his.
So, it is easy enough for her to know that it is envy that burns through her chest and yet she has never felt it like this. This strange anxious stone in her belly that fears that he might like someone else, as though they were- something. As if they were carefree and young, as if they had never-
She shakes off the feeling, frowning now as she continues reading. Her fears pushed somewhere to the back of her mind so that she might not consider them again. It is not long before she is smiling once more, chuckling as she sees the quick scratches of his pen as he had tried to get it to work before giving it up for the pencil.
"What's so funny?"
She is only a little startled, her shoulders jumping before she shakes her head, folding up the letter to finish later.
"Nothing. Aren't you late for school?"
"I've got a few minutes. Your tea is getting cold."
Henry stands at the door to the parlour, a smile on his lips, his pack slung over his shoulders, his hands pulling at the straps as he looks at her. She rolls her eyes in answer, smiling still as she tucks the letter into a pocket in her dress before walking up to her son.
"I'll make myself another. Are you ready to go?"
Her arm around his shoulders, she turns them out of the room and into the hallway outside, slowly making their way to the door.
"Yes, just came to say goodbye and to tell you that I'm going to be late today. I have extra lessons with Miss Green."
She nods her assent, pulling him closer to press a kiss to his forehead as they reach the door.
"I love you."
"I love you too, mom."
He rolls his eyes this time, so very similar to her own that she can't help but laugh.
She watches as he begins to walk down the path to the main gate of the house, leaning against the doorframe to watch him go. She is just about to turn away, her mind drifting back to the letter in her pocket, to her rapidly cooling tea, when she hears him.
"Say hello to Captain Jones for me!"
No one told her that packing up a bottle of ink would be this much of a nightmare.
A few hours ago, as she had been returning from the hospital for the day, she had found herself staring into a shop window, inks and pens and paper on display. She hadn't really thought about it, hadn't really intended it and yet, there she had been. She had been preoccupied for most of the day, her mind running through the moment over and over again when she had realised that Henry knew that she was writing to Captain Jones, when she had realised that she didn't really mind that he knew.
It was with that thought that she had finally gone into the shop and bought a bottle each of blue and black ink. She now sits cross legged on her bed with a few scrap pieces of cloth, some twine and a box. The cardboard boxes the ink had come in had been too bulky to pack properly so she had thrown them away, thinking that she would much rather pack the bottles carefully in some cloth and tie up the tops so that they may not spill as they made their way to France.
But making that happen was turning out to be a lot more difficult than she had imagined. The cloth had kept slipping away as she tried to tie it, the top of one of the bottles a little loose, staining her hands a bright blue in the process.
She is trying again now, to close the loop of fabric over the top of the black bottle, letting out a muttered curse as the fabric slips between the twine for the third time when she hears the knocks on her door. A little loud, a little insistent and she smiles, already knowing that he won't wait for her to answer before he-
"Mom?"
"Hey you, how was school?"
She places the ink bottles on the table by her bedside before standing up to walk to Henry who has now stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
"It was alright. I just wanted to ask if you had already finished your letter to Captain Jones?"
She frowns a little, her eyes flashing quickly behind her to the bottles of ink before she meets Henry's eyes again.
"I haven't yet. Why do you ask?"
Henry hesitates for a moment, his hand reaching for his pocket and then retreating before finally reaching in to pull out three pencils, rich purple with sharpened dark tips and she is taken aback. Her mouth opens and closes to speak but she stops, unable to find her words.
"I just thought that he might need them? You said he was an artist right?"
"I did. Thank you, Henry."
She takes the pencils from him, reaching behind her to put them on the table, reaching for Henry then, her arms around his shoulder as she pulls him into a quick hug.
"You're a good kid."
"Yeah, yeah, I know."
His voice is muffled against her neck. He smiles as he pulls away, her own cheeks all but sore from smiling and she feels an inexplicable pride in her chest. This was her son. He was going to be a good man some day.
Henry's smile fades, his head cocking to the side as he looks at her. Her own eyebrows rise in question at him before he finally speaks, his voice low but firm.
"It's okay if you like him. You know that right? He seems like a really nice person."
"I- yeah. I know."
Henry steps forward, hugging her quickly once again.
"Goodnight, mom."
"Goodnight, kid."
He turns away then, closing the door behind him again as he leaves.
It's okay if she likes him.
Perhaps it is.
Captain Jones,
I hope you are well.
Your spot in the camp looks beautiful in the picture in your letter. I am glad that you have that and hope that it brings you some measure of peace.
I am doing alright, as is Henry. Henry wanted me to send you a few spare pencils just in case you aren't able to sharpen them where you are. I have enclosed them along with a few bottles of ink since you said that you had run out. I hope they are useful to you.
Ariel sounds lovely and whatever you decide regarding your injury, please know that I am certain your presence there is felt and that the men you have befriended will miss you sorely were you to go. Sometimes, all one needs to keep going is a friendly smile from a kind soul and I cannot think of another as well as you to do that.
The hospital is running as hospitals do. We have a new volunteer and she has been assigned to me. I am to help her learn her duties until she is capable enough to do them on her own. Her name is Ruby and she is a most personable woman, always smiling, always kind. She has made the halls here a little brighter with her presence.
I hope your way to the front is as easy as possible.
Stay safe.
Regards,
Emma Swan
Etaples Base Camp, France
Spring, 1916
"Would you keep still, please?"
"I swear, I'm trying but this bloody strap is digging into my shoulder like a-"
"Okay, hold on, I'm going to try and loosen it."
Ariel disappears behind him, her hand reaching up to pull at the leather that winds around his shoulder, connecting to the small metal hook at the end of his arm. His eyes squeeze shut as she pulls on the strap, a sharp pain lancing up his arm from his injured wrist, his fingers rubbing roughly against his palm on his other hand as it rests at his side.
"Is that better?"
The strap relaxes just a little, his shoulders flexing as he lets out a breath, the pain easing as Ariel comes back around to face him.
"Yes, thank you."
The sound of a series of explosions in the distance distract them both for a minute, Killian's eyes quickly going to the only window in the hospital tent. The night's fighting had already begun, their very own thundering orchestra performing their favourite symphony.
And tomorrow he would be there with them.
He knows that he had left the fitting to the last minute but it hadn't been until this afternoon that he had decided that he would use the prosthesis at all and not until this evening that he had finally given up on trying to fit it himself. The sun had been well on its way to setting when he had arrived near General Hospital no.26 asking for Ariel Fisher.
"I think you're all done now. Does it feel alright?"
Killian breaks his gaze away from the window, his eyes focusing on Ariel once more, flashing a quick smile at her before looking at the metal extension on his arm, trying to move it back and forth, testing the limits of its movement.
It's an odd weight on his arm and it will take some getting used to but for now, it seems to fit well and the pain he had felt when he had first put it on is beginning to fade.
"I think it does."
Ariel nods, her smile firmly in place as she steps away.
"Good. So I think you'll be able to put it on and take it off a lot easier now."
"Thank you, Ariel. I really appreciate it."
He steps down from the table, tapping the table with a soft clink with his new hook as he hits the floor.
"Of course. I'm glad I could help."
She steps forward, taking his hand briefly and squeezing before letting go.
"Good luck out there."
He swears that it smells like her.
He pulls out the letter from his bag to read it again, even as the men he shares his quarters with sleep on, unknowing of the wild knot of tension that coils in his belly this night. The light of his only candle flickers dangerously low but it does not seem to deter him, his eyes resolutely chasing the dips and curves of her ink, trying to find a sense of calm, some measure of stability as he follows her words.
He smiles again at the pencils. He has them tucked away in his bag now, sharpened to a point and wrapped in a small piece of fabric along with the ink she had sent him. He imagines her wrapping them, arranging his gifts in the little box, her careful fingers running over these objects that have become something magical for him through the gift of her touch.
Stay Safe, she'd written.
He would certainly try.
(If only so that he is able to see her smile in person once more.)
He hasn't written her back yet, not had the time all day to do so. But now, he sits up in his narrow bed and reaches for his bag pushed underneath it, reaching deep inside for some paper, a pen and his sketchbook. He rests the paper upon the hard binding of the sketchbook in his lap before beginning to write,
Emma,
He pauses instantly, his ink pooling at the bottom of the comma. He been calling her Emma in his head for a while now, the formality of Miss Swan lost somewhere between the feel of her hand in his as they danced and the gentle ease of her letters. But he had never presumed, never imposed, never thought that he might be so free in his expression of his fondness for her. But tonight feels different. He sits on the edge of something that he knows not if he will return from and he wants her to know.
He continues writing.
Emma,
I thank you heartily for your gifts. They are a sweet connection to home and I cannot thank you enough for your kindness.
Henry is a thoughtful lad. I am certain his gift will be most useful in the days to come. As will yours.
It is late at night here, the shooting at the front going on in the background and I am preparing myself to begin the journey there tomorrow. But my heart will not sit still in my chest and my belly coils as I wait for the sun to rise. I am glad to leave the static anticipation of the camp where it felt as though we spent each day just waiting and watching, knowing that something terrible was about to happen but not knowing when. So in a way, getting on with it feels better. And yet, there is an unease that has made its home in my heart and I know not how to soothe it.
I apologise that this letter is short but I promise to write again soon for I must put the ink you have sent me to good use.
I am thankful for your letter and your words. I will hold them close to my heart in hopes that their sweetness with calm the growing storm that resides there now.
Yours always,
Killian
A/N: So, it's been a while? I've been dealing with some IRL stuff lately and it's delayed my Caesura schedule but hopefully, things are back on track now! Thank you so much for waiting and reading, I really appreciate it
And now,
Notes, historical or otherwise:
In this chapter,
Etaples Base Camp was a large Training Camp for the British Expeditionary Force. Multiple countries had their training camps set up there. Etaples was notorious for how bad the conditions were there, eventually leading to a mutiny in 1917.
The training ground at Etaples was called The Bull Ring.
Lady Angela's Rest Hut was a real place that ran at the camp. Aristocratic women in England wanted to help with the war effort and this was one of the ways that they did it.
The men at the front weren't allowed to reveal their locations in their letters in case they were intercepted and so they often took to writing "Somewhere in France" at the top of their letters instead.
Montreuil-sur-mer was the General Headquarters for the British Army from March, 1916.
Prosthetics came into huge demand during the war because of the sheer number of soldiers that were getting injured and losing limbs at the front. Antibiotics hadn't been invented yet so the only way to treat something and to make sure infections didn't spread was to amputate. The British government provided free prosthetics to all injured soldiers. One of the main centres for the rehabilitation of soldiers who needed them was Queen Mary's Hospital in London.
Killian's hook Prosthetic is D.W. Dorrance's Split Hook design for a prosthetic. I think the timeline is a little bit off but I claim poetic license for this decision :D