oh hey it's been [checks] 9 years since i updated this! hello! basically life caught up to me and i sorta lost steam and started focusing on other stuff i wanted to write instead. but i never really stopped thinking about this fic and i still worked on it whenever i had a moment. since come back home is turning 10(!) this year i thought now would be a good time to finally finish it.

the original ~plan~ was to just post any deleted scenes or continuation oneshots that i could think of, but tbh leaving fic unfinished stresses me out so i don't want to leave it open-ended! instead, i'm planning to post 3 more parts (for a nice number of 5) and then if inspiration ever strikes again, those will just be separate stories.

sorry for the wait and big big thanks to everyone still reading my fic, it means the world to me :3 title of this chapter is from "lover" by taylor swift.


can i go where you go?

august 1918

There is another dance at the shore.

It's not nearly as grand as in the old days; it is only a get-together hosted by some Crawford or another, who has returned from a year (or was it six months?) in the States, and intends to make their presence in the Glen known again. One of the younger lads from over-harbor has brought his fiddle, but the rationed cake and scarcity of young men make it a rather subdued affair.

The invitation was mainly for Rilla, but she brings Walter and Una along anyway. Walter can't do more than a few slow turns around the dance floor, so it's just as well that Una can't dance, either. They sit for a while, watching everyone try to revel. Walter doesn't mind the crowd — such as it is — so much anymore. It's nice to simply watch them all, drink in their youth, even if he does not feel so young himself. Una leans her chin on her hand, following the dancers with her eyes. Walter takes her in — the graceful curve of her fingers, the slight smile on her face, the single wisp of dark hair curling over her cheekbone, surely going unnoticed by anyone but him.

"Let's walk down to the dunes," he says.

The moon is full tonight, a glittering path on the water. There are just a few couples scattered among the rocks, and Walter and Una join them, listening to the waves lap quietly at their feet.

"I wrote to Redmond," Walter says. "To inquire about returning this fall."

Una doesn't say anything, just watches him and waits. The evening breeze stirs her hair, making a dark halo around her face. She looks almost wild like this, though no one would ever think of Una Meredith that way. She looks rather like the central character of a poem Walter has recently begun, about a witch who lives in an isolated cave, shunned not because she is wicked but because people don't understand her — or maybe the resemblance is the other way around.

"They accepted," he says slowly, unsure of her reaction. "So…I'll be going back, this coming semester."

Una frowns. "The semester is starting next month."

"Yes."

"You must have written them a while ago."

Walter wants to wince, but he knows it would give him away. "Yes," he admits. "I wrote to them in January."

Una turns to stare out at the dark water of Four Winds Harbor. Walter feels her tense, almost imperceptibly, her hand going very still under his. This is Una's way of showing displeasure, he knows.

He sighs. "Are you angry?"

She is silent still for another few moments, then — "No, of course not. I just…I suppose I hadn't thought about it. I wish you had told me earlier."

"I'm sorry," Walter says quietly. "But I'll be home for breaks and I won't have to teach if magazines keep accepting my work. So I won't be so busy when I'm home." He tugs her hand, hoping for a smile. He doesn't particularly want to go back, in truth, and Una's silence is only reminding him of all the reasons.

He only re-enrolled because…well, because he must, because a year is long enough to have spent at home, because he still needs to finish his degree. The world is still moving, a current that keeps pushing him along whether Walter knows how to steer himself or not.

He doesn't want to think about what might await him at Redmond. Everyone who called him a shirker, a coward — will they recognize him? They'll still hate him, he thinks, for the opposite reason now — for calling the sons of Canada to war with "The Piper", for the poem's increasing distance from the reality their brothers and lovers found in Belgium. Or worse, maybe they'll adulate him. He sent some — below-average — poems to Punch and the Spectator, just to make some extra money, and they unquestioningly accepted them just because of his name. It feels cheap, the way he'd found the recognition he'd always dreamed of.

And how many of his former classmates will he simply never see again? For a moment, he sees the enormity of the loss with horrible clarity, sees how many of the laughing boys of yesterday are simply gone and he is one of the few left.

Una's hand over his brings him back to himself, and she twines their fingers together, offering him a small smile.

"I'll write," he promises.

Her smile grows wider. "I know you will."

"Perhaps you could come to Kingsport some time. My sisters would love to have you — and Faith will be back soon, too. I think you'd like it there." He describes it for her, the old brick walls of Redmond, the flowers that bloom in the spring and line the avenues where college students walk and stop to flirt and kiss. At the last, he turns to brush his lips against her cheek. He feels her skin warming with her blush.

"Well, don't tell me all about it," she says, her voice thin and breathless. "I want to be surprised."

"Very well," he says, then she turns her face fully to his, and they don't speak for quite some time.


october 1918

Walter leaves at the end of the summer. He kisses Una on the train platform, quickly, but with a warmth that cannot be mistaken for the kiss of a brother or a friend. It is as much of an announcement as anything, for one of the Reese girls is waiting for the afternoon train and is watching them from the corner of their eye. If there is anyone left in the Glen who isn't gossiping about them, Una thinks wryly, they surely will once they hear about this.

He'd written her a letter, with instructions not to open it until he left. Una had promised and has read it over several times since, blushing every time. Still, no amount of sweet words can replace having him here, and as September turns to October, Una finds herself feeling just a little melancholy. She doesn't mention it to anyone, knowing all the Kitty Alecs of the Glen will simply start talking about how Una is pining for Walter Blythe, and how she'll likely waste away, which apparently happened to a girl Sophia Crawford once knew.

Una will staunchly deny that she is pining — perhaps she did at fifteen, when Walter began teaching in Lowbridge and it was rumored he was calling upon Alice Parker — but she nearly twenty-two years old and sensible, now. She isn't pining, she is only…missing him. Missing the arm around her waist that she has become so used to, these past few months, the feeling of Walter's gentle fingers tracing her ear, holding her by the waist and brushing down over her hips. Her skin prickles with longing. She hadn't realized it would be so difficult to let him go, even knowing he'll come back this time.

Her solitude is interrupted by the sound of a buggy approaching from behind. Una turns, and oh, it's Dr. Blythe, politely tipping his hat at her and saying, "Miss Meredith! What brings you out so early?"

"Oh, I — I was taking baskets to some of the families in the Upper Glen." Surprise makes her stumble over her words, and it comes out sounding rather like a lie. She can't recall ever speaking with Dr. Blythe at any length before. She hopes he's only passing by the Glen on his way somewhere else, and he won't offer her a lift home, for she has no idea what else to say to him.

He tilts his head at the seat next to him. "I'm on my way home, if you'd like a ride."

Una's first instinct is to say No, I'm nearly to my destination, thank you, but they are in the middle of the Upper Glen road and quite near to absolutely nowhere in particular. So with a murmur of thanks, she boards the Blythe buggy, thinking about the cruelty of fate all the while.

"This must be a long walk for you," he says, twitching the reins.

"Oh — no, it's not so very long. My father usually drives me up with the baskets, so I only make the walk back. I don't mind. It's nice to walk this early, when everything's so…" She waves her hand, not knowing the words she wants.

The doctor seems to understand, and he smiles slightly. "It is, isn't it? It gives you space to breathe. To think. Sometimes I think it'll be a pity when everyone has a car, and people will have to remind themselves to walk for leisure."

"I don't know if everyone will have a car," Una says absently, watching the rise and fall of the trees as they pass. "Father and Rosemary don't really hanker after one. I think some of the congregation would even be upset if Father attended to them in a fancy new automobile."

Dr. Blythe smiles. "They would, wouldn't they? I suppose I'll have to take the buggy out every now and then to attend the Kitty Alecs of the Glen, even after our car comes in. Do you hanker after one, Una?"

"I don't know," she says slowly. "It seems wonderful — but it would change the Glen — the whole Island — so much if everyone had a car, wouldn't it? I don't know if I like the thought of all that noise…putting up signs everywhere like in the cities…besides," she adds with a blush, "I can't imagine I could drive one."

"Oh, I'd trust you in a car before several of the Glen folk," he says dryly. "Including some of my own kin, at that. I'll have to teach Walter to drive it, when he's home on breaks," he adds, sounding almost distracted. "It might be easier for him to get around, rather than walking everywhere."

"If there are no cows blocking the road," Una murmurs, and Dr. Blythe chuckles.

Perhaps the mention of Walter brings it to mind, for he then asks, "You never thought of going to Redmond, Una?"

"I thought about it," she admits. "But — you know — we're all so close in age — it would've been very hard on Father and Rosemary if we were all away…" As we almost are now, she doesn't say. "And I hadn't any particular reason to go. I don't have — ambitions like the others."

"Ah, I wouldn't say that. I hear the musical education of all the town girls is in your hands."

"Well, the Glen's not very big," Una says without thinking. She's been spending so much time with Walter and Rilla these past few months, she's starting to forget to hold her tongue. She blushes furiously, wondering if it sounds like an insult.

Then she sees Dr. Blythe is smiling. "That it isn't. But it's home. Lived here more than twenty years now, and people leave…but they always come home to roost in the end."

Una nods. That has been on her mind, too, ever since Walter left. She hears it, sometimes, when he says that the Glen isn't the same for him anymore, that he feels as though the village belongs to a different world. He never says it out loud, but she feels it, unspoken: a world I no longer do. When — if, she reminds herself — they are married, they won't stay here, she is sure of it. And if Walter ever recovers his old ambitions to be a professor or a prominent editor, they will have to go wherever the big universities and publishers are — Toronto or Montreal or even the States. Could she follow him?

Then again, what will be left for her in the Glen by this time next year, then the year after that? Even if — please, God, if — the war ends and their boys return, things will never be the same as they once were. She and her siblings will never all live in the manse together again, she and Faith will never again share a bed and hear Carl turning over in the creaky cot across the hall. Everyone she loves would have been parted from her anyway, eventually.

They drive on in silence for a while, but it's rather comfortable, not the awkward kind of silence Una sometimes feels around the church elders or the Lowbridge doctor. She even feels it around Mrs. Blythe, sometimes — as kind as she is, Una always gets the impression the older woman is expecting her to say something. There is something easy about Dr. Blythe's silence, his presence calm and steady, not expectant. He reminds her of Shirley.

They pass the post office, and Una realizes with a start that she is nearly home. The ride hadn't been nearly as awkward as she'd feared. She's almost sorry when they reach the manse.

"Una," Dr. Blythe says, just as she's about to step down from the buggy. "You know…people leave the Island," he says again. His eyes crinkle at the corners. "But that's the thing about small towns like the Glen — they have long memories. Sometimes we rather wish they didn't…but it can be a good thing. It's always here waiting, whenever you want to come back."

Una has the funniest feeling he's seeing through her, just the way Shirley used to when she pretended not to care that she had to pull taffy all through a dance, just the way Walter does when she says nothing is wrong. She sees the echoes of the people she loves in Dr. Blythe's face and finds that he doesn't seem so distant and intimidating, after all.

"By the way," he says, "I feel I ought to give you a fair warning — that wife o' mine is planning to invite you to tea one day."

Una lets herself laugh, perhaps for the first time in front of the doctor. "I look forward to it," she says, and is surprised to realize that it's the truth.


november 1918

Dear Una,

I got your letter and had much to say about your tea and Rilla's attempts at cream puffs and poor Susan — but then the news came and I can't think of anything else but — armistice. It's over. Can it really be so?

There were celebrations all throughout Kingsport — we heard fireworks in the distance and saw some light from them, but no one could pinpoint who was setting them off. They cancelled classes today because they knew no one would turn up; everyone has been going mad all night. My housemates ran into the street where some lads had brought out their stores of liquor and they all had quite the party, right in the middle of the road. They're only freshmen — just old enough to enlist, but they'd promised their mothers to wait until the new year, since they thought the war might end with the summer offensives. Lucky, isn't it?

Some part of me thinks I should be there — in Europe, still. It feels strange to celebrate when Kingsport looks the same today as it did yesterday and the day before, when the war was still on. Part of me thinks I should still be there to see it in the trenches. Did the fighting stop right away? Did they celebrate just as everyone did last night, or were they only relieved that it's over? Can they believe it, yet? I'm not sure I can.

I walked around town and watched the celebrations. I didn't feel much like joining in. It's not that I'm unhappy — I don't know how to feel at all. Forgive my handwriting. I'm shaking a bit (shamefully), thinking of all that's happened, all that might happen after this. I only knew I had to write you and put it all down in words, otherwise I might burst.

I'm turning to your letter now, so expect another one soon, where I'll properly address Susan nearly dropping the pie in the old well. Give her my sympathies in the meantime.

Your Walter


Dear Walter,

I didn't think I'd heard Rosemary correctly when she told me that the war was over. I just kept cutting carrots for soup until she repeated it again, and even then, I wasn't quite sure what I'd heard. It doesn't seem possible for it to be over.

We celebrated here, too — the whole Glen did. We all (my family & I) went up to Ingleside and had a dinner with yours, although everyone was talking over each other — Norman Douglas was there, so you can imagine — and I didn't hear a word anyone said.

It was nice to be together and laugh and not feel as though we're papering over the war. The past four years, it felt wicked to laugh and forget for a moment that there was a war on. And yet — some part of me is afraid to celebrate. There can't be all this talk of a new world without more sacrifice, without more changes. But we can't know, can we? We'll only make ourselves crazy trying to imagine the future.

Let's be happy for just this moment. The rest will come in time, I'm sure.

All my love, truly,

Una


may 1919

Una-my-only, Walter begins the letter, smiling slightly as he writes the words. The second semester is drawing to a close, and among all the papers and exams and applications, I keep thinking — one more year. Do you think of that as often as I do?

He sits in the small garden of the house he rents in Kingsport with three others — the two freshmen from Halifax, from wealthy families but still awkward and pimpled with youth, and Jerry Meredith. The early May sun is warm, only the third or fourth warm day of spring so far, and there are small birds coming to inspect the flowers, fluttering quietly through the garden. For several minutes, Walter writes, lulled into a trance by the scratch of his pen against the paper and the gentle hum of life around him.

He looks up at the creak of the gate to see Jerry propping it open with his hip, hands still shoved into his coat pockets. His brows are drawn together, but they unfurrow when he sees Walter.

"Should've known you'd be out here," Jerry says, coming to stand over Walter on the bench. "What're you writing?"

"A letter. To Una."

Jerry makes a face. "Both of my sisters, now," he says with a sigh. "What is it about you Blythe boys? Don't answer that," he adds.

Walter smiles slightly, folding the unfinished letter in half. "Want to sit? You were out for a long time."

"I've got work," Jerry says, fiddling with his watch. "I spoke with my department head today and I've got a chance of graduating next year instead of the year after, if I can fit another class. I might be able to swing it if I catch up this summer — "

"Ten minutes," Walter says. "Come on, you never stop moving. Come look at the lilacs for a moment."

Jerry hesitates, then drops down onto the bench heavily, letting his jacket fall open. Underneath, his vest and shirt are neatly pressed, almost obsessively so. Walter wonders how many times a week Jerry straightens his clothes, among all the chores he's picked up — although they have a list dividing them equally among the housemates — the courses he managed to sign up for, the late hours he keeps…in Walter's memory, Jerry was once so steady, but now — but now —

Jerry had re-enrolled at Redmond before he'd even landed back in Canada, picking up some courses during the spring term to refresh himself on his truncated studies. He'd only been in the Glen a few scant weeks before packing up for Kingsport, according to Una's letters. Too quickly, Nan fears, Una had written to Walter. In truth, I think it's too soon as well, but he was horribly frustrated by being at home.

The worst is, there really isn't anything new in Jerry's manner, not to Walter. Some men fall still and silent under the weight of everything they've seen. Some men keep moving constantly so the thoughts never catch up to them. Once the change in his old friend would have been alarming, but — like seeing a bloody bayonet, like seeing a man drowned in mud — now it is just another thing that is perfectly normal.

They don't talk much — not real talks, not the kind of deep, confidential conversations Walter shares with Di and Una. There's something easy about being with Jerry, though, that was never there before the war. Jerry knows about the rations, the mud, the rain leaking through the roofs of the barns they billeted in. They can talk of the training at Valcartier, swap stories about their units and battles. They don't need to have the meanings of Courcelette or Vimy Ridge explained to one another.

"I wonder who planted these," Walter says idly, eyes roving over the clusters of flowers. "I somehow doubt it's the work of Harry and Peter."

Jerry chuckles. "You never know. I used to try to help in the garden at home, but Una hated anyone touching her plants. She wouldn't say anything, but she would just look so horribly wounded…"

He sighs, leaning back and shutting his eyes. "I missed her birthday," he murmurs. "In December. I wrote, but — didn't bring her anything when I came back. I meant to — meant to bring something from London — but I forgot."

"You know Una doesn't mind things like that."

"Mm. Still, I…well, I suppose it's too late now." He doesn't open his eyes. "You're going to propose, right?"

"Of course," Walter says, almost insulted. "After graduation." He doesn't have it planned, exactly — if he can't offer Una the man he used to be, whole and vital, he at least wants to be sure he can offer her a future, a job and a house and a life. Stability. Even after a year home, the idea feels foreign, still.

Jerry smiles faintly. "Good. Both my sisters," he says again. "Guess we're all sorted out. Christ." His voice begins to drift, falling asleep in the warm May sun. "Sometimes I feel like it was all just a bad dream, and now we're back to the real world. And sometimes I feel like…it's the other way 'round. You know?"


may 1920

The day of Convocation is unseasonably warm, more like the middle of summer than spring. Harry has spent the entire morning sneezing, which is ruining the romance of the day somewhat.

Una is coming to Convocation, she's already written him — Rilla thought I ought to keep it a surprise, but I don't think it would surprise you to see me there, seeing as Jerry is graduating, too.

Jerry and Walter ended up in the same graduating year, owing to the breakneck pace Jerry had set for his studies to make up for four years away. He has already proposed to Nan; they are to be married in the summer. Faith has returned to teaching; she and Jem are faithfully writing as he finishes his medical studies, and then Walter expects they will be married, too.

Shirley and Carl have another year left. Their futures are not laid out quite so clearly, although Walter sometimes sees Shirley in the company of a girl whose relations, as the rumor has it, were not supportive of the war or are perhaps even German themselves. She is thus not particularly popular on campus, but Shirley has never cared about such things. Walter suspects Susan might have something to say about it, but — that's all in time. There is no rush, not any longer.

In his childish dreams, Walter had always expected Convocation to be an epoch in his life, as he'd once read in one of Mum's poems. And yet, he finds that he barely remembers the ceremony itself, all his thoughts intent on what he plans to do afterwards.

Their families have arranged for a celebratory dinner and after the ceremony, they all depart to get ready. As they leave, Walter draws Una away from the group, down an avenue lined with trees and stately homes. Honeysuckle droops between the iron gates of the houses, the air sweet and hazy.

They walk a few blocks, until they reach the small park situated between the homes. Walter stops under an oak tree and for a moment, Una keeps going. Walter tugs her hand to spin her back to him, the closest Una has ever come to dancing.

"Una."

She looks up at him, eyes bright, cheeks rosy in the late spring warmth. Walter has to force himself to speak the words and not simply kiss her.

"I have news," he says. "I've found a job."

"Oh," Una says, looking somewhat taken aback. "That's wonderful, Walter."

"Don't say that just yet." He takes her hand in his, running his thumb over her soft skin, the blunt ends of her nails. "It's for a small magazine, but I would have the opportunity to move up. Or move to a larger publication nearby, as the office is in Toronto."

"Oh." Una's eyes go very round. "And so you would have to live in Toronto."

"Yes." He bows his head, holding her hands to his chest. "It wouldn't be so unfamiliar — Rilla will be there, once she and Ken are married. But — I know you've said — you've never wanted to leave the Island. It would be a change, and I know…it wouldn't be easy."

Una lifts her chin defiantly, taking his face in her hands. Her palms slide over his jaw, down to the striated, burnt skin just above his collar. "Yes," she says. "But I could do it." For you hangs unspoken between them. Not for the first time, Walter feels something wonderfully certain, looking down at her pale, pointed face, the conviction in her eyes — certain that he loves her, certain that whatever comes, they can withstand it.

"Then…I believe I have a question for you." Walter draws the ring out of his pocket, and when he asks, Una's answer is in her lips against his, her laughter in his mouth.