Marz: I think the reason that I interpret both Shirley and Una as being "left behind" is because I feel that, by Rilla of Ingleside, Una isn't part of the "main group" anymore. She didn't go with them to Queen's or Redmond, after all (she and Rilla are the only ones who don't pursue higher education). So even though Una is a more prominent character than Shirley, I think they both ended up a bit on the outside of the big Blythe-Meredith clan. But that's just me! Also, you're right, we don't see Mr. Meredith talk to Walter in Rilla of Ingleside, which is a bummer. Anyway, thank you for the review :)

Guest: I wasn't planning on bringing in Irene Howard - I always feel awkward with "bad" characters, where the sole purpose of their role is to be brought down, you know? (I mean, I know Irene isn't the nicest character in canon - but I try to get away from tropes like that as much as I can.) But you never know! There are some things that I didn't plan that snuck in anyway. :) Thank you!

Couple of notes! As we get a little more into the characters talking about the war, I feel the need to point out that my views (particularly on WWI) aren't necessarily those expressed here. I personally was always weirded out by the nationalism in the book, but I also want to keep the characters in line with the general attitudes at the time (although by 1917, the war wasn't as popular as LMM would have you think). Also, the line of poetry in the third part is from "The Aftermath" by L.M. Montgomery. Also-also, I subscribe to the theory that "The Piper" was basically LMM's stand-in for "In Flanders Fields" - so while I kept the text that LMM published in The Blythes Are Quoted, I took the surrounding events (the use of the poem to sell bonds and boost morale, etc) from what John McCrae experienced with the publication of "In Flanders Fields." I'm also a bit fuzzy on 1910s copyright law/whether or not Walter would get paid for the poem to be reprinted at all. (I sort of decided that he would get paid if the reprint was for profit - i.e., selling war bonds, but that could be wrong.) Apologies for the likely inaccuracy, and just repeat to yourself, "It's just a fanfic, it's just a fanfic," please!

Title is from "Sukoshi de Ii Kara" ("A Little Bit of Good") by Tenjochiki.

Updated 8/12: I originally put that "The Piper" was originally published in Punch, because I didn't recall the actual name of the magazine being written in RoI, and Punch was where "In Flanders Fields" was first published. I went back and checked and the book actually says that "The Piper" was printed in the London Spectator. Oops at me tbh! Thanks to Marz for first pointing it out. (I swear, I've read RoI to pieces and I still missed that. Dumb Emily is dumb.)


a little bit of good

Walter sighs, looking down at the mess strewn about his bed. He had never been quite as neat as Shirley, nor as disorganized as Jem - always occupying the medium between them. But no one who could see Walter's room in this moment would know it.

He'd debated and deliberated for days over Di's letter, worried and fretted like Jem before his Queen's entrance exam. No one in the house seemed to notice, withdrawn as Walter is, which is well enough. He doesn't want to upset them further, and for once, his worry is only a common one. It would be good, he thinks, to see Di again, to try and fix all that is strange between them. If it can be fixed. Perhaps this is a part of growing up. They are adults now, with their own lives and paths, and if they are only going to diverge, then - then that is that.

But no, Walter doesn't want to accept that. Di, who he has always shared everything with. The two of them shared almost a soul, and if Walter cannot fight the war, fight his own nightmares, then he must at least fight for that.

And so he had written, telling her that he would come, in a few weeks' time during her long weekend.

Which leaves the question of what to bring. It is too early to pack, but - perhaps if he manages to get his luggage in order, his mind will clear as well. He and Di had parted on good terms, but there is still something strange between them. So much she doesn't understand. Perhaps they'll be able to fix it - or perhaps they'll spent the weekend in cold, awkward silence.

But there will be Nan, Walter adds. And Alice. How odd - that all his male friends are have gone. As they must.

Not all the men had gone, of course. Some had stayed, stubbornly refusing to enlist even as they were presented with hundreds of white feathers, letters that Walter is sure were even more malicious than those he'd received. One fellow, Arthur Baker, had walked campus one day with all the feathers he'd received pinned to his coat, enough to nearly cover the front. Walter still doesn't know if he admires him or thinks him an idiot.

For Arthur Baker will never have to know what Walter knows, now. Perhaps he is wiser for that, but Walter knows that if he sees him on the campus, they will not be able to talk, not as friends. For Walter went, after all, and Arthur didn't.

Perhaps fearing war is not the cowardice - perhaps it is the doing of the things that Walter has done. But then - he thinks of Bruce Meredith in the mayflower grove, his laughter as he searches for flowers, sees Una holding a flower between her fingers. It had reminded him so strongly of an almost-forgotten dream that he'd been frozen, for a moment.

But unlike in his dream, there had been no shells, no mines, no danger lurking beneath the sweetgrass. And that is how it will stay. So perhaps he has done a - little - bit of good, after all. And perhaps they'll see that, when he returns to Redmond.

He shakes his head. Several of his old clothes don't quite fit anymore - he has gained muscle from training and digging and running and dragging sandbags, and has lost weight from two years of rations and nerves. He won't ask Mother or Susan to adjust them, though. He thinks maybe he can - God knows there were no mothers to stitch up rips in their uniforms at the front.

It would be good to do - something, anyway. Lately he has been feeling oddly irritated and jumpy, for no reason that he can explain. It's not from the nightmares or the lingering pain of war - no, that is something bone-deep, that exhausts him from the inside out. This is closer to the surface, like needles pricking at his skin. He supposes it's better than - the other - but it's no more pleasant by any stretch. He can't pinpoint the source, either - and as Dad and Jem always say, you have to know the problem to find the cure. He thinks it started that day with Una and Bruce, in Rainbow Valley - but then, what could have upset him? Perhaps it is one of his odd premonitions. The Allies have begun their Spring Offensive. Maybe - maybe something is about to go wrong. Jem or Shirley - no, he won't think like that. Maybe this has nothing to do with that at all.

Nothing at all, he reassures himself, holding up a pair of trousers that are almost abominably short. He shakes his head. When was the last time anyone had sorted through his clothes?


Una doesn't look well, when she comes up to Ingleside. She has been away for a while - busy, she said, the last time they'd spoken. He can see that she wasn't lying. Strands of dark hair are unwinding from her braid, which itself is rather crooked and loose. There are faint shadows under her eyes.

Still, when she sees him, she smiles. Walter feels something inside him warm. Una is like that, he's found. He never feels quite as terrible around her.

They end up ambling through Rainbow Valley, settling beneath the Tree Lovers. Una doesn't say much, and Walter finds himself sneaking glances at her occasionally.

"You're not all right," he observes finally, when the silence is too much to bear.

Una jumps slightly, as though startled. Then she gives a little laugh and leans against the entwined trees. "I'm sorry."

He shakes his head, and moves to take her hand. It is only a simple gesture of friendship, one that is becoming familiar, comfortable to him. Una's hands are always cold, though they warm in his grasp. The tips of her fingers are rough from housework - it had surprised him the first time. His sisters - even Faith - worked their minds, not their hands. Now, though, he knows her hands, the ridges of her fingers and the softness at the base of her wrists, as well as he knows his own.

"Tell me."

Una sighs, but does not pull away. "Things are - overwhelming. Jerry and Carl - " she shrugs. "It's hard."

Her words are simple, but Walter can see the fears, the sleepless nights, reflected in her face. Una expresses herself best without words.

"They'll come through," he says, giving her hand a quick squeeze.

"Oh, Walter," she sighs. "Please don't lie."

He pauses for a moment, unsure how much to tell. All his stories - always they have been his own, never anything that could touch her brothers or his.

"I don't know if much will come of this Spring Offensive," he admits. "Every time - they tell us it's the final push, this one battle that will send them over the edge. But…"

He feels Una's fingers press into his palm. "But?"

"But. It never quite turns out that way." He tugs at their joined hands to motion towards his leg. "The battle I was injured in. They sent us over the top, running straight at the other side. I survived that, but then - there was the gas, and the shelling. And at night there's the raids. You think - you think maybe you're safe, for a while, but - you never really are." He tilts his head at her. "But the rains should have stopped. So there will be less mud." He knows it's not much of a comfort.

Una nods. "I see." She turns to peer at him. "It's like that every day?"

"For years."

She doesn't look away, and he thinks perhaps she understands all that he has left unsaid, in their conversations - the waiting, not for a battle or for reprieve, but for the shell to finally fall, for the gas to finally come at eat at their skin, their bones. He has escaped that, but her brothers have not. Her hand remains steady in his.

"Oh, Walter," she says, even softer than before.

He leans his head on Una's shoulder, and after a moment, her head comes down to rest against his. He briefly wonders if this makes him weak - leaning on her the way Faith leans on Jem, Nan to Jerry. He should be supporting her, that's what he's always been told. But no - they are holding each other up, letting their burdens be carried across where their shoulders touch.


The coming of the mail today is not pleasant.

There are no letters from Jem or Shirley, nor from Ken or Carl (Jerry writes only to Nan, at Redmond). Perhaps they don't even know he's home, yet. Rilla hums in disappointment, but masks it quickly and busies herself with feeding Jims. Susan mutters darkly about the kind of conditions Shirley must be in, if he has no time to write her.

For Walter, there is only a circular and a letter addressed in his own hand. The circular is a check - a neat sum for the reprinting of "The Piper" to sell war bonds in the United States. The slip of paper feels too light for something that makes him feel so heavy. He can't buy anything with this money, he thinks. Money he earned encouraging men to fight this war. He's as bad as the men in the recruitment offices and the girls passing out white feathers.

The checks come more often than he'd expected, too. Perhaps he'll never have to complete his degree. Certainly the magazines would accept more poetry from him - but then, the poetry he writes now - And when the moon rose redly in the east, I killed a stripling boy - well. He doesn't think anyone will want to read it, even when the war is over.

The next is the letter, addressed to one of the men in his battalion. He had only meant to ask how things were, try to reach out as best he can. But it's been returned, and there is no stamp to mark some kind of postal mishap. So his comrade has gone west, then. He ought to have expected it.

Rilla nods at the envelope. "Who's it from?"

"Returned," he murmurs, setting it aside. Perhaps it's something in his face that gives it away, for Rilla's face falls and she busies herself with her own mail.

He picks up the circular and turns it over and over, in his hands, thinks of his other poems. One in particular sticks in his mind. He could never send it to Punch, or any magazine of that like. But there are some publications, he knows, that may be more receptive. And isn't that what he wants? For people to understand?

Maybe it is time to tell them.