Chapter 11 Footprints on the Sands of Time

It was so strange to send a letter to an American address that would actually be ending up somewhere in the United States. Belle looked over the address that Lieut. Jeffries had sent once more-a hospital in Temple, Texas. Roger was on her side of the world, and yet, with all the said and unsaid things Jeffries said he was feeling, he felt even further away.

He lost a boy. It had to be the boy, Cassidy, he had spoken so fondly about. His injury was severe and permanent, so bad they were sending him back to the States for special care. She could hardly stand the not knowing. She wished she had a little money that she could board a train and go and see him-hold his hand and tell him he was not alone in the world. Well, she could write him, and write him a great long letter, unencumbered by the special v-mail paper. She did pull out one sheet of the special paper to send to Lieut. Jeffries and one to Ruby, but she stopped by another store to buy some stationary. She was thankful that her Papa had always kept a coin jar, and always forgot to empty it when it was full, for it had provided her with the means to send such things thus far.

Morris' house came into view, and as much as she was ready to get warm again (her hands, feet, and nose were especially cold, this morning) she dreaded entering the house. She had very little luck in the job search. Morris was sharp. For some reason, he seemed to want her there at his house-she wondered if she was making such a financial difference at the plant or anything that he thought it worth the expense in feeding her. She supposed so. Thus, his deluge of words, censuring her for seeking employment elsewhere once he found out. Mr. Clark had outed her, not knowing the state of things. It wasn't his fault, he could have had no idea how desperate she was to change the way things were, he was only passing the time of day with a person who frankly, probably intimidated him a little. Morris had given him to understand that not only did she not need a job, but she had acted in a deceitful way-discounting everything she said. Belle had gone to bed that night in tears, which was not so very different than any other night since she had not heard from Roger.

He was hyper vigilant after that. Belle had hardly any time of her own at all. She worked during the week, and did chores on the weekend. Her errand days were still her own, but only for the time that he deemed necessary for her to be gone and he asked for a complete account of what she had done once she came back.

He had then taken away her Sunday. This was especially hard. He had told her how selfish she had been to go to church, how many chores Cathy had taken on because of her absence, made her, Cathy and David work until late at night to complete these supposed chores to show just how selfish she had been and then told her that as a last resort, he would take away her bike and her errand day if she refused to give it up. She had glared, spoken back, and crossed her arms, but Morris' presence was always so overpowering. He always made her feel so very small. She asked for God to forgive her, and then became more determined that the absence would only be temporary.

She longed for a book. The couple of books she had brought with her had been read through many times already, and Morris' collection was miserly. A sturdy set of encyclopedias lined one shelf, books on business and mechanics lined another. That was all. There were no novels, poetry, not even one interesting piece of non-fiction (for the books aforementioned did not count, as they were not interesting at all). Belle had resorted to reading the skeleton selection when she just needed something to read, since a trip to the library would have taken much too long on her errand day and it would have been seen as a waste of time.

This day was one such day where she longed to sit down and get lost in a good story. She first penned her letter to Lieut. Jeffries. She would be able to send both it and the one to Ruby and receive any return letters from Ruby in the usual manner at the center. Now that Roger's letter would be sent with the regular mail, she wasn't sure how to keep her coorispondance from Morris. She was in luck for once in this miserable time since she came as it was normally David's task to check the mail as he came in the house after school. He had proven to be somewhat of a friend to her. She was scared to confide in him, worried both for him, and that he would tell his father just to try to be on Morris' good side, like Cathy had done. However, it was better to do that than take her chances she thought, and she would pull him aside one day and ask him.

For now, she began writing her letters.

'Lieut. Jeffries,

I want to thank you for writing to me about Roger. You were right, hearing that he is alive has filled me with a great sense of relief, since I had worried that the worst had happened. I have paper here before me that I will use to do my best at encouraging him. Thank you for being such a friend to him, and if Roger did not relay my message earlier, I also thank you for being the means in which Roger and I are now friends. He is a good man, I have come to believe, and your loyalty to him only proves it to me.

I hope you remain safe, sir.

Sincerely,

Belle French'

Ruby's was next. She finally felt able to write her without sobbing-her own dear pen pal was alive, even if he was hurt. It made it easier to speak about Ruby's Archie. She avoided any talk about her situation with Morris. She was disappointing in herself more than anything, for not having gotten things ready to leave and didn't want to spell out those disappointments to Ruby.

Then came the one to Roger. It was hard to know exactly what to write. What would make him feel better, what to avoid in order not to hurt him too badly. He had lost someone, someone close. She wanted to honor that-remember it, without dwelling on it in a way that would make him suffer further. When she was done she found herself restless, and pulled out the book on mechanics, seeing familiar diagrams that made her think of her papa. She fell asleep over one such diagram and did not realize the book had still been in her hands until she sensed a dark figure was standing over her with the book now in his hands. Apparently she had let it fall to the floor.

Morris stood over her, eyes all ablaze. By the time he finished his lecture on how to take care of books, how she owned nothing, had no way of repairing books were something to happen to them, how that she had no ability to take care of things, and then how he wondered that Maurice's house didn't crumble due to her lack of abilities, she found tears spilling despite herself. She knew that she ought not to let his words affect her so, but somehow they did. How she wished she could do something right, how she wished her papa was there. He didn't always notice all the little things that went on around him, but he was never overbearing, never biting with his words. It didn't help that this happened so soon after breaking a dish while drying it. That had been worst in terms of the words he used, but because she loved books more than he did, she almost felt ashamed for having hurt the book at all.

She sighed and tried to shrug off his words and went to do the list of Sunday chores that were now hers. It was very hard to stay determined when she felt like this.

…

The smiles from the nurses irritated Roger almost as much as the serious looks from the doctor who would look in on him from time to time-check the healing of his stump of a leg, speaking about prosthetics, asking him questions about how he felt, and so on. Roger hated the attention on the missing limb, and wished he could forget the whole thing. He didn't want to learn to walk, or learn to cope and function in society. He only wanted to curl up on his bed and try to forget everything that had happened, and then if he was being completely honest, there really wasn't a time in his life that he would rather go back and relive with his two whole legs. His aunties had tried to love him and raise him, but he was already half grown when he came, and as they died off one by one from old age over the next decade before he decided to leave, he could only feel sorrow that he hadn't known them longer. Belle's letters were little spots of comfort in the dreary discomfort of fear and war, but the reality he faced wasn't exactly something he yearned to return to either. His whole life had been one unfortunate event to follow another. What was he even doing here-on this earth, still stupidly alive anyway? He thought, and not for the first time, in fact the thought was an ever present pulse in his veins, that it was entirely unfair for him to be spared at the cost of someone who had so much life in him like Cassidy. He would never express these thoughts out loud or else be considered suicidal. He wasn't, he didn't think, he just didn't think he was the one that should have survived when there were so many other, better candidates for that role.

Days bled together and he grunted and groaned at the people around him until they felt uncomfortable and left him alone except for the barest of necessary tasks they needed to perform. If they became that way towards him, it was nothing that he did not deserve, anyway.

'Corporal Gold?'

He hated hearing that name now. He wasn't a corporal any longer. It was Corporal Gold who had been so scared to die that he pulled Cassidy along with him. It was Corporal Gold who had been the means, then, of Cassidy's death and now he would carry a reminder of his cowardice the rest of his life.

He grimaced at the nervous nurse looking wide eyed at him. She had seen him snap at several of her superiors, and he could sense her shaking where she stood just trying to hand him the envelope in her hand, as if he would bite said hand off.

He took it from her and watched with almost amusement, if one could call it that-he wasn't sure if that was something he could experience anymore now, as little Nurse Boyd scurried away.

When he had seen the envelope he assumed it was from Jeffries, telling him off again. He would hate the harsh words and yet at the same time, secretly hoped that perhaps it would be the means of snapping him out of this tunnel he felt he was in, unable to see any light up ahead.

However, as he took up the envelope, he recognized the handwriting and it was not Jeffries, it was from the person that could give him the only break from reality he ever had as he reread or thought over her letters in the middle of Europe. He never thought he would hear from her again…how did she…? He shakily pulled out the sheets of paper, much lengthier than any of their other letters.

'Roger,

I want to first ask you to forgive your friend, Lieut. Jeffries, for giving me your information, as for me, I thank him a thousand times that he gave me such relief in the knowledge that you were alive. '

Roger groaned, and yet he was inwardly glad that his friend had done what he could not bring himself to do. As much as he didn't want Belle to know his pathetic state, he also selfishly had longed to hear from her.

'As I peered through any paper I could get my hands on with lists of the fallen soldiers, I worried each time that your name would be there. Clinging to hope when I didn't see it, and yet dreading each next issue. And oh how very thankful I am that you are alive!

Lieut. Jeffries was not forthcoming about your injuries, please do not feel like you are obligated to share them with me ( I know that I am only the girl who writes you letters, only a pen pal who has come to consider you a dear, dear friend, yet I would do anything-)' Here there was a dash and a smear of ink that made him wonder if she meant to continue in that line of thought. '... that is to say if it would ease your burden, or if you feel up to sharing, you have a ready listener and sympathizer in me, sir. You are in my prayers, both for your recovery and your overall well being. The unknown has me so worried for you, I find. Are you eating enough? Are you being treated well? Do you have everything you need? Would that I could do something to help you, Roger.

It seems strange that you are now residing in the same country; our letters can be received in mere days rather than weeks. However, as I hinted before send only as you desire and feel up to, but I will be only too happy to hear anything you wish to send, even if it's only a line saying you are only as well as I'm sure you can be in such circumstances.

Oh Roger, I have been struggling on what words to use to convey how sorry I am at the loss of the dear soldier that you admired and thought so much of. What words can I give that would give such comfort as you once gave me yet would not bring you any fresh pain. I am reminded of a poem, as always seems to happen when writing to you, it seems. Tear it out if it brings any unnecessary pain, but it seemed such a hopeful one that I could not help but add it here:

'Lives of great men all remind us, We can make our lives sublime,

And, departing, leave behind us, Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main,

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate;

Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait'

The poem is by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and is a bit longer than the excerpt given. I imagine your friend when I read it-a great man who has made his mark on this life in the short time as he was given. I for one will cherish his memory for your sake, my dear friend, and shall, hearing from you of his great bravery in life, try to step in those footprints and live to achieve and pursue, to labor and wait as he did. My hope is that you too can find hope in the legacy that he left behind to be able to once again live and dream of the future.

Was this letter even remotely helpful? You have my permission to cross out any word or paragraph that you dislike or that gives you pain. I only want to be a comfort to you, and only wish there was some way I could do more.

Please take care of yourself, Roger, for my sake if nothing else?

Your worried friend,

Belle'

The sob stole from his chest without warning. He ought to look at his neighbors to see if he disturbed them (though he only had a few beds in his room now, as opposed to the sea he dealt with before), but he found that his mind could not process it. She was too much. She was too warm and kind, and wonderful for the likes of him. If she knew… No, every line spoke of the worry and care she had for him. Did he even dare share with her the horrific state that would forever be his lot?

He felt selfish and despised himself for allowing her to worry like he had. He thought she might think to herself on occasion and wonder what had become of that soldier she used to write, but he had not even considered that she might worry enough to dread fatality lists. How could he have done that to her? God bless Jeffries, he supposed.

The poem wrecked him. He thought of Cassidy's brave footprints upon the sands of time and how Roger had thought them now wasted. They had not-they would not. Not for as long as he would live.

The sorrow and grief was still there. He remained disgusted with what was left of his leg, disgusted with himself for what he had put his little princess through yet-yet he would rally. Perhaps not for himself but for the footprints left on the sand, and the girl that promised she would do her best to find them there.

Author's Note:

History stuff:
Temple, TX was one of five big hospitals that had wings dedicated to limb loss care. I had a hard time deciding on which one to send him to, but figured the middle-ish of the US was the best bet?
Belle says that it seemed strange to send a letter to the US that was actually going to an American Address. This was because the V-Mail letters were always sent 'in care of' an American address before going to its recipient overseas.

Story stuff:
The poem is 'A Psalm of Life: What the heart of the young man said to the Psalmist' by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Not going to lie, I got a little emotional researching to write this chapter, and when I got to the poem I was really feeling it!

I don't know if you've picked up on it, but Morris sounds a lot like 'Maurice'. Normally Belle's dad is the bad guy, in that in the show, especially once they get to storybrooke, he's not the nicest person. I decided to make Belle's papa more like he is in the animated movie-absentminded but sweet. Morris has all the nastiest qualities of Maurice, but with a sharp, manipulative mind.

You may be wondering, why does Morris care that Belle is at his house? For people with narcissist personality disorder, optics are everything. He understands that Belle is his sister and how that looks, even if he doesn't like it or really considers all the sides to what he does (as he has no ability for empathy). This causes him to do everything in his power to make sure Belle stays, and makes her look bad when he finds out that she has been looking for work. He also is stingy with money, so the free labor is a bonus. I'm getting into more details of Belle's day in the next chapter, showing why she might feel disappointed in herself, and yet allow Morris to get away with the things he does at the same time.
I hope it all makes sense! Please be patient with Belle-the abilities of Narcissists to manipulate are unfortunately impressive.

Thank you for reading and all the comments. I know that this story is much heavier than some of my other stories, but I do promise a HEA for our couple!