Content warning: discussion of effects of killing someone in a war and mention of unhealthy coping mechanisms.
Mary has no proper recollection of the end of the skirmish in the birch copse. She knows they won. She remembers the surviving Germans being taken prisoner and Phryne vomiting behind a tree. She remembers thinking idly that they don't have enough stretchers for all the new wounded and dead, and the sun streaking more and more brightly through the fog.
She thinks she remembers Matthew taking his gun from her hands and sitting her down against a tree, telling her to breathe. She doesn't remember if she has listened to him, but she has the memory of his blue eyes boring into hers and his hands grasping hers so tightly it nearly hurts. She wonders if his hands are unusually warm or hers are so cold, but she can't let Matthew's hands go.
She must have though at some point, because she can see Matthew in the middle of the copse, ordering his soldiers around, and William is handing her a tin cup full of hot, overly sweet tea. She hasn't even noticed that somebody – maybe even the Germans before it all started? – managed to light a fire. The cup is burning her hands, but she craves the warmth too much to let it go. It's not as nice as Matthew's hands have been, but it's still nice.
"Drink, your ladyship," says William gently. "It will do you a world of good."
She obeys and instantly grimaces at the taste.
"It's terrible," she mumbles but drinks some more, the awful tea filling some of the hollowness inside her. William laughs.
"Mrs Patmore wouldn't allow this tea in the servants' hall, never mind upstairs," he says, his eyes twinkling. "But it does its job after fraught moments like this one."
Mary is not sure if she would describe seeing one's beloved nearly killed and killing a man to save him as a "fraught moment" exactly, but she assumes the same principle applies. They are English, after all.
"Better give some to Phryne as well," she mumbles over the rim of her cup. "I think she killed five of them."
She doesn't know how Phryne feels about it – she doesn't even know how she herself feels about what she has done – but she assumes that whatever Phryne's state of mind is, she would prefer the taste of that horrible tea to the taste of sick.
William's eyes are round and wide, but he nods and goes to fetch more tea. Mary stays and drinks her own.
She doesn't notice Matthew walking towards her, he just appears to her as out of thin air. She might be more tired than she has realised.
"How do you feel?" he asks, crouching next to her.
Mary doesn't know. She doesn't seem to feel anything at all.
Matthew frowns when she tells him so.
"I think you might be in shock. Your hands are like ice."
Mary ponders it for a moment and agrees, although the word does not stir any emotion in her empty chest. She assumes that one might be in shock after killing somebody like that.
Although... she doesn't know how she feels about it... how she feels about all of it... but she is certain of one thing.
If Matthew's life was on the line like that again, she would do it again. In a heartbeat.
Can one feel remorse without regretting the action in the slightest?
Is it normal to kill a man and feel nothing over it?
Matthew is still speaking and she forces her tired brain to focus.
"We just got word. The fighting is over," he says. "We pushed them back, mostly. Ambulances are coming, Branson was one of the first ones."
"And the town?" she asks.
"Suffered some damage, but the hospital escaped the worst of it. Sybil is safe," he assures her immediately and it makes her feel better. It is morning and they are all still alive.
They are all still alive.
"I told Branson to take you home with his load of the wounded. Someone will come for your ambulance."
She frowns in puzzlement.
"Why would you do that? I can drive it myself. We have enough wounded to need each and every one."
Matthew stares at her.
"You must be joking."
"Why?"
"Mary, you've just..."
"I've just what?" she challenges and Matthew obviously decides he is too tired to get into it now.
"You haven't slept," he says instead.
"And you have?"
He closes his eyes in exasperation.
"Mary," he says through clenched teeth. "You've had a hellish night, to say the least. Can't you acknowledge it and let yourself rest?"
Mary gets up and puts her borrowed cup away.
"No. There's too much to do," she says, then adds when she sees Matthew opening his eyes and mouth to quarrel further. "Besides, I'm afraid that if I stop and think now, I won't get up again."
That shuts him up. He gives some orders to Sergeant Stevens and returns to escort her back to the cottage and her abandoned ambulance.
The walk through the field in the daylight, when one is upright and without anybody shooting at them, takes no time at all. Mary glares at the mud resentfully, very aware that some of it coats her from the top of her head to the soles of her shoes.
"I obviously shouldn't have bothered with washing my hair," she mutters. "I will just have to do it again."
She has heavenly visions of her deep bathtub at Downton, filled to the brim with hot water and scented bubbles. Sadly, the best she is going to get is a pot heated on the stove and a basin.
"Mary," starts Matthew quietly. "I wanted to thank you."
She looks up blankly. In her current state she is not even sure what he is thanking her for.
"You saved my life," says Matthew, his eyes full of emotions she does not even try to decipher.
"Ah, that," she says only and wonders if she really should drive, considering that her brain seems to be completely out of commission.
Matthew must be thinking something similar, because he frowns with obvious concern.
"Are you sure..." he starts but stops at her pointed glare.
"I'm sure," she lies through her teeth. Thankfully he decides to accept it.
They find Phyrne, Smith and Rory, Phryne's orderly, already by the ambulances. All three are smoking cigarettes. Even in her deadened state Mary notes Phryne is so full of nervous energy she's practically vibrating.
It says a lot about her that only then she notices that half of the cottage has been obliterated by a shell.
"Oh," she says, with a vague feeling she is somewhat underreacting. "Guess it's good we left when we did."
Matthew just gives her a look and goes to talk with Smith.
They are soon followed by a line of soldiers and medics carrying the wounded from the copse, who are promptly loaded into the two ambulances. Before she knows it, Mary finds herself behind the wheel, with Matthew standing next to the car to make his goodbyes. He looks just as exhausted as she feels.
"I don't know when I will be able to come by," he says. "I need to get the POWs sorted out, do the tally of the wounded and dead, check out the orders with the command..."
His voice trails off, but Mary suspects the list of tasks continues in his head. Then he recollects that she is leaving, Smith looking impatient by her side, and grasps her hand briefly.
"Godspeed, Mary. I will come when I can."
"Good luck, Matthew," she manages to say in response, and drives off.
She was right about the road's chances of remaining intact. It consists currently more of craters than actual driving surface, so manoeuvring the unwieldy vehicle takes even more effort than usual. But they are just four miles from St. Omer, so they get there before Mary collapses against the steering wheel or just decides to chuck it all and walk home to Downton. It has been a close call on both counts.
The hospital is overflowing with wounded soldiers from the fighting and civilian victims of the bombing, so Mary doesn't even bother to search for Sybil. She accepts Matthew's word that Branson assured him Sybil is alright. She checks in with her supervisor instead who takes one look at her and Phryne and sends them both to their billets, thank God.
They walk home in silence, way too exhausted to talk. Mary's brain remains too empty to form words anyway. She still feels numb, devoid of any kind of feelings, and she wonders idly if they are going to hit her later or if she is going to remain like this forever. It's not a bad state to be in, but she assumes it is not exactly good either. Currently, she does not care either way.
Phryne lights up a cigarette, drawing scandalised looks from some of the French matrons sweeping up the broken glass from the bombing. She waves at them cheerfully.
They separate at the door of Mary's house, Phryne's billet in the one next door. She drags herself upstairs and collapses on her narrow metal bed, boots, mud and all; she is asleep before her head hits the pillow.
xxx
To Matthew's extreme distress, he doesn't get any opportunity to check on Mary for the whole two weeks. He's sure he is going to go mad with impatience and worry for her. But the fighting resulted in slight redrawing of the lines separating the Allies from the Germans and since parts of the trenches were lost, new ones have to be designed and built, and quickly at that, before the ground freezes. Matthew and his men are one of the units sent to do it, miles from St. Omer, and he grinds his teeth through most of this assignment. Then, as soon as they are done, they are sent for a stint in the front trenches. There is thankfully no action there to speak of, both sides apparently still licking their wounds after the last one, or maybe even acknowledging the end of fighting season finally. He hears that the battle at Passchendaele is wrapping up as well. He prefers not to think much about the extremely dubious advantages of that particular bloodshed. He's mostly relieved that he and his men were not trapped in the thick of it. Surviving the Somme has been bad enough.
But since it's quiet, he has nothing more pressing to do than worrying about Mary. So he does it, constantly. He tries to write to her, but he cannot find the words. What should one say in such situation? Thank you so much for saving my life by killing a man, by the way, are you alright after a shock like that? Because I sure wasn't after my first one, but it got better after I had to kill so many others that I've lost count. It stops being so shocking when it's just another Tuesday. I fervently hope you won't find that for yourself though. I'm so sorry you had to do it for me. I'm so sorry that it was me who made you into a killer.
No, he doesn't write this letter.
But the sight of Mary's pale, expressionless face and her brown eyes blown wide in shock keeps haunting him day or night, so he writes to Sybil and asks her how's Mary dealing with it all. He dares not to describe what happened in the letter, not when it's censored, but he expects that somebody enlightened Sybil when it comes to particulars. He ordered his men to keep quiet about both Mary and Phryne's involvement in the skirmish. The British Army command is twitchy as it is about allowing women anywhere near the battlefront, the last thing he wants is to get them in trouble or cause a national debate on the issue. His men do talk among themselves, of course, all incurable gossips, but as long as nobody higher up the chain hears anything officially , nothing should come out of it. Still, better not to put any details in a letter.
Sybil's response reaches him two days before the end of their time in the trenches and does very little to ease his mind.
"I'm worried, Matthew. She insists she is fine, but she is not. I can see that she barely sleeps or eats, and she is quiet and withdrawn most of the time. I've tried to talk to her about it, but she refuses. It's of course perfectly normal behaviour for Mary when she is upset over something; she has never been the type to open up about things which eat her inside, but combined with the rest of it, I would give anything to know what she thinks and feels about it all. I have no idea how to get through to her and I'm about ready to tear my hair out."
With this letter distressing him to no end, Matthew is sure his men are just as relieved as he is when they can finally go back to the rest camp. He's aware that he has been a beast to everybody over the last few days. He barely has enough presence of mind to remember to use the bathing facilities and put on a clean uniform before he is on his way to Mary. He prays she is not on shift right now, because he won't be responsible for his actions if he is once again prevented from seeing her.
xxx
Mary spends the two weeks after that night as if she was still walking through a thick fog. She drives her ambulance, mostly to pick the wounded from the trains. When she has free time, she reads French books she gets from a public library. She avoids Sybil, with her concerned looks and probing questions, which are annoying and unnecessary, because she is fine . She avoids Branson as well, because he is nearly as bad as Sybil. Truthfully, if it wasn't for the dreams, she would judge she is doing perfectly alright.
Better than Phryne, at least, she thinks as she comes back from a nightshift and runs into Phryne stumbling to her billet, very obviously drunk. She sighs and offers her an arm, trying not to grimace at the smell of liquor, cigarettes and something else, something undoubtedly male .
"Goodness, Phryne," she gasps, struggling a bit as Phryne leans heavily on her. " Seriously? "
Phryne makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
"There are so many dead boys," she says mournfully. "So many pretty, precious, dead boys. I needed to remind myself that some of them are still alive. I needed to enjoy them before they die too."
Mary is not unsympathetic to such sentiments, but she barely restrains herself from listing at least twenty reasons why everything Phryne does to make herself feel better is extremely bad idea. Starting with the fact that her taste in men must be questionable if her chosen one was not apparently a gentleman enough to walk her home when she's in such a state.
Or maybe she is just immune to such temptations because she is hopelessly obsessed with one gentleman who would have always walked her home, whatever state she would be in. Even though she ruined everything and he doesn't love her anymore.
She just knows that he would make sure she makes it home safe anyway.
Phryne's moan brings her back to more immediate concerns.
"Are you going to be sick?" she asks suspiciously, angling slightly away from her just in case.
"Maybe," groans Phryne miserably. "But I think I will manage."
She's wrong. Just a dozen meters later Mary needs to support her as she pukes her guts out onto the sidewalk.
When they finally stumble together into Phryne's billet and Mary deposits her charge onto a kitchen chair, she can hardly believe they made it. She busies herself with making tea as Phryne lays her head on the table.
"That's why I grabbed this gun back there," she mumbles. "I was so angry that they were shooting at those boys I was just flirting throughout the night with. But now I feel even worse."
Mary scoffs, trying to control the trembling of her hands.
"I don't think your chosen medicine is helping any."
"It probably isn't," agrees Phryne. "But it feels good in the moment."
She raises her head enough to stare at Mary with one bleary eye.
"How are you so unaffected by it all?"
Mary doesn't know what to say. She is fine, of course she is fine, she keeps telling Sybil she is fine and she means it , but unaffected... No, she isn't that. She isn't that at all.
"I'm not," she answers simply.
"But you're not a hot mess like me."
"It's not how I am in general," points out Mary. "When something bad happens... I just turn into stone."
She cringes inwardly at the melodrama of this statement, but she cannot help thinking that it's the best explanation she can ever give. Withdrawing, hiding, making herself unfeeling or at least seem like she is – this is how she has always dealt with things which just make her feel too much . Better not to feel at all for a bit, until she is strong enough to face whatever made her like this in the first place.
Or until she manages to bury it so deep it will never resurface again except in nightmares.
"I envy you," mutters Phryne into her folded arms. "I'm opposite. I have to keep distracting myself or I feel like I'm going mad."
She looks so young, so vulnerable, that a horrifying idea occurs to Mary for the first time.
"Phryne," she asks suspiciously. "How old are you?"
"Twenty" answers Phryne with nonchalance immediately identifying her as younger than that. Her petulant shrug in response to Mary's stern gaze only strengthens the impression. "Oh, alright. Seventeen."
" Oh my God ," says Mary in horror . "How on Earth have you even managed to get accepted into FANY?"
Phryne smiles wryly.
"I showed them my older sister's birth certificate."
"Of course you did," says Mary faintly.
"I would have volunteered to the French if FANY didn't accept me. They are less picky."
"More desperate, I dare say."
Phryne shrugs. Her black hair is escaping from its pins and making her look her real age.
"I couldn't stay at this stupid boarding school when so many are dying here. I had to do something. To help."
"And now? Are you happy with your choice?" asks Mary as she contemplates her own motives for coming and how none of them had anything to do with wanting to help . Watching over Sybil was the closest thing to an altruistic reason she had, but Sybil is her darling and her baby sister and Mary would have been devasted if anything happened to her, so that doesn't count.
"I just want it all to end," answers Phryne plaintively and Mary doesn't have anything to add. She wants it all to end too.
So she makes sure Phryne is hydrated, drags her to bed and tucks her into it, a glass of water and aspirin waiting for her when she wakes up. Then she tiredly walks to her own billet next door.
Her eyes widen when she finds Matthew in front of it.
xxx
Mary is not there when he arrives. In fact, nobody is there, the door locked and the windows dark in the gloom of a cloudy November morning. With a sigh, Matthew sits down on the doorstep and tells himself to be patient. Again.
He never was a patient man; he takes after his mother in that. If something needs doing, they both want to have it done at once. Waiting for Mary to give him an answer to his proposal was the most patient thing he ever did, and he is still not sure if he showed too little or two much of it.
The war both taught him to be more patient and made him abhor the waiting more. One has to be patient in the trenches, with their unrelentless monotony for weeks on end, but at the same time it is tearing on men' sanity. But one thing Matthew has learnt there, however reluctantly, is how to sit still for as long as is necessary in whatever uncomfortable conditions he encounters. So he settles on a hard stone doorstep, in the wet cold typical of November in northern France and waits. He's not going to go anywhere until he finally gets to see Mary.
Thankfully, he doesn't have to wait long. He has barely been there for ten minutes when Mary emerges from the house next door and startles at the sight of him in front of her own. Matthew's eyes greedily take her in, cataloguing every detail: the pallor of her face, the hollowness of her cheeks, the bruise like shadows under her eyes. He concludes painfully that Sybil has been correct in her letter to him; it is obvious looking at Mary that she neither ate nor slept properly in days. Probably since that bloody night at the cottage.
She shakes off her surprise at finding him here and wordlessly invites him to the house where she prepares tea with automatic movements. As many times as he has seen her doing it in this very kitchen, he still finds the sight somewhat shocking. He wonders if she is going to find Downton as jarring as he did on his first leave there, when she finally goes home. He knows that she hasn't been there since early August.
He waits with speaking until she sits down next to him, two steaming cups in front of them on the table. She hasn't spoken a word until then either.
"How are you, Mary?" he asks and is not at all surprised by her curt answer of 'fine'. "No, really."
She tries to roll her eyes in her usual fashion but it's a half-hearted effort at best.
"I am fine. I don't know what else I am supposed to tell you."
"You don't look fine," he observes bluntly. "And Sybil is worried for you."
She glares at him.
" Of course she wrote to you. And it's rude to tell a lady she doesn't look her best."
"I will be rude if it makes you tell me how you really are. I worry too, you know."
"There's no need for either you or Sybil to worry. I wish you two would just believe me."
"Mary," he says in exasperation. "Nobody is completely fine after killing somebody for the first time. You forget that I've seen you after you did it. You were not fine then, and you don't look fine now."
She flinches at his words and he regrets his harshness with her. This is not how he has planned this conversation to go, not at all, but she is so bloody stubborn and distant and cold that it is driving him mad, especially because he can see that she is crumbling inside all those walls of hers, making him feel helpless and useless and so very guilty.
He takes a deep breath. He hasn't intended to get into it either – not with her, not with anybody else, not ever – but if it can help him to get through to her, if it can help her deal with it all... For her, he will.
xxx
She can see that he is bracing himself to say something and she hunches her shoulders, bracing herself to hear it. She wishes he would just accept that she is fine and drop the topic. She has no wish to discuss it further. Or at all, really.
"Mary," he says quietly. "What you've done... I did exactly the same thing."
She looks up at him in puzzlement.
"I've never told that to anyone," he continues in the same quiet voice, "but when I first arrived here and we went over the top at Loos... I was shooting wide. I was shooting my gun, of course I was, but I wasn't aiming or checking if I hit anybody. I didn't want to hit anybody, as absurd as it sounds."
He laughs a bit and it's not at all a happy laugh.
"I went through quite a few charges like that. But then, one day, I saw this one German soldier, a boy, really, clear ahead of me, holding a gun. I could shoot him, easily, he was in my range. But I couldn't force myself to kill this kid, for all that was my purpose there, what I volunteered for, so I aimed to his side."
He stops.
"And then what happened?" asks Mary gently. She wants to touch his hand, to comfort him or herself she is not sure. Maybe both. But she is afraid he will shatter if she does it now.
"And then the German kid aimed and shot the English kid just next to me," answers Matthew hoarsely. "Bill Colton. He was 18, volunteered a day after his birthday. He got a bullet through the head four months and three days later, in his very first battle. All because I couldn't force myself to do the duty I signed up for out of my own free will."
He pauses again, then raises his eyes to Mary.
"The very next day," he finishes his tale, his voice a mere whisper by then. "The Germans decided to raid our trenches for a change. It was the first time I was fighting like that, not going over the top, but defending myself in the narrow passages of our own fortifications. I was never so frightened before as I was then. I was running, I don't even remember whether chasing somebody or being chased, when I turned and saw what you must have seen in that copse - a German soldier standing over one of my men, bayonet ready to strike. I had my gun out and this time I did not hesitate. I killed the German boy so he could not kill the English one."
And Mary cannot restrain herself any longer, she reaches for his hand. His fingers are like ice.
When he looks up at her, his eyes are haunted. She is not sure if he even sees her anymore or is looking at wholly different scene playing out in front of him.
"Oh Mary, it was awful. It was terrible. But the worst thing, the very worst thing was that I would do it again. I have done it again, countless times since that day. I've never let my shot go wide again. Because if I did, another of my men could be killed because of me. I hardly think about it anymore because thinking too much about it makes you hesitate and will get you or the others killed. But then I go to sleep sometimes and I see them."
"Them?" asks Mary, afraid she knows the answer.
"The men I've killed," answers Matthew in that haunted whisper. "I see myself doing it again. I see their eyes as they die. Sometimes... Sometimes it's even worse."
He takes a raspy breath. She sees how much this topic is affecting him, how much it costs him to tell her all of this and realises with awe that the only reason he is doing it now when he admits he has never told it to anyone is because he wants to help her deal with what she's done for him. He's doing it for her .
"But the very first man I killed... It really was the same, Mary, exactly the same. So if you ever want or need to talk about it... I'm here."
"I don't feel bad," she blurts out and, even seeing Matthew's eyes grow wide, once she started she cannot stop. "I don't feel bad at all. Everybody assumes I do, but I don't. He would have killed you. It was such an obvious trade, a stranger's life for yours. I didn't hesitate even for a second. And I... I am just so glad I managed to save you. It was an awful thing to do, but how can I regret it when I don't feel an ounce of remorse? Not when the reward was your life."
She looks straight into his shocked eyes and her voice quivers.
"Matthew... Does that make me a monster? That I don't feel bad?"
"No!" he exclaims immediately, pulling her into his arms and hugging her tightly. "Absolutely not! You just see it clearly. You took a life to save a life of another. There really isn't any nobler reason to do it than that."
"But you do still feel bad for killing that German boy," she points out hesitantly. He smiles wryly in response.
"Yes," he answers, his hand stroking her back soothingly. "But for the first time I feel that maybe I shouldn't. Being in the position of the rescued one was really eye opening."
He obviously can tell that Mary is not convinced because he tries a different tactic.
"It's all my fault anyway."
Mary gapes at him.
"How on Earth have you come to this conclusion?"
"I gave you my gun," he points out in his logical solicitor voice which used to drive her mad in much less fraught circumstances. "And even if I didn't, you wouldn't have had to shoot anyone with it if I wasn't stupid enough to trip and fall."
"Don't be absurd," she snaps. "You gave me your gun so I had a chance to protect myself if I needed it, and hardly anyone can be surprised that you tripped, considering you've been fighting after being awake for more than twenty four hours at this point."
"But the point still stands. If I didn't give you my gun, you wouldn't be now dealing with it all."
"No, I would be too busy grieving you instead."
It only infuriates Mary more when Matthew shrugs carelessly.
"Maybe yes, maybe no. Maybe I would have shot him myself instead. Maybe he would have killed me. Who knows. But at least you wouldn't know how it is to kill somebody," his face becomes serious as he looks at her with raw pain in his eyes. "I'm so sorry, Mary. Do you know how sorry I am for it?"
Mary closes her eyes to block the sight of those pained eyes. She knows he is sincere, but she finds the idea that the whole thing was in any way his fault preposterous.
"You said you have nightmares about the men you killed. I've had nightmare too since it happened, but mine are different," she says abruptly.
"Different how?"
"I am too late," she whispers with bloodless lips. "I kill him, but he has already killed you first. Or I don't kill him because I am paralysed with fear and watch him killing you instead. Or... My hands are shaking so much that my shot goes wide and I kill you myself. However it happens... You die in every one of them."
She raises her eyes to look into his.
"So don't you dare apologise to me. The only thing which makes it all better when I wake up is the knowledge that you're alive because I did save you. I didn't hesitate and I aimed the gun right. I did save you ," she repeats, deep relief permeating every word. "The only thing which has been torturing me about my actions is that I really feel no remorse, not like I think I should feel, like other people do. Not like you did. I'm afraid... I'm afraid you will despise me for it, now that you know."
"I never would... I never could despise you, whatever you have done. And definitely not for saving my life," his voice becomes choked. "I wish so much... Mary, I wish so much that you didn't have to, that you were never here to witness those things or be forced into making such impossible choices between life and death... But I am so grateful that you were there and you did what you did. I wish you didn't have to, but I mean it. Thank you, Mary. And never, never blame yourself for what you did or what you are feeling or not feeling about it, because I could never believe that acting to save somebody makes you a monster, even if it wasn't me you saved."
She closes her eyes, wishing so fiercely that she could believe him.
"The worst thing about being forced to kill people, at least for me," continues Matthew quietly, "is the awareness of what I am capable of. The inescapable knowledge that I am willing and able to go so far. That this kind of darkness has always been lurking inside of me, I just never realised it before."
Mary opens her eyes and frowns.
"You have no choice but to do it though. It is the war. That's what the war is. You would never have done it if it wasn't for it."
He smiles wryly.
"Of course not. But the point is I volunteered for it, rather naively I can say now. And even if I didn't... if I was drafted... there is always a choice. Not a good choice, I grant you, but there is one. When faced with the people who are there to kill you, you have a choice to fight back, to kill them first, or to refuse and to die. I've witnessed men deciding to die or face prison for their convictions that killing is ultimately always wrong, whatever the circumstances. And now I know, and I can never forget it, that when I am faced with a choice like that, I am willing to kill rather than to die myself."
Mary's frown deepens.
"But isn't it a natural choice? An instinctual will to live?"
"It certainly is a natural one," agrees Matthew. "But is it the moral one?"
Mary bites her lip in thought.
"I don't think we have a moral obligation to die instead of defending ourselves," she says finally. "Even if it results in a death of another. But... I do understand what you are saying about inescapable knowledge of oneself after committing an act like that. Because... this is what bothers me the most, I guess. Not that I've done it – as I said, I would do it a thousand times more if your life was at stake – but that I am capable of doing it. That when the time came to make a choice, I did not even hesitate to pull the trigger and that I cannot even bring myself to regret it. It is a horrifying realisation."
He squeezes her hand in perfect understanding and tremendous regret that they do share it now.
"I've always been told that I'm heartless," adds Mary quietly. "I often said myself that I don't have a heart. When Patrick died, everybody was expecting me to mourn him as a fiancé and cousin I grew up with, and yet I only felt relief at being freed from the obligation to marry him for the good of the family. It made me sad that I could not be sad and what happened now... it is just like it was then, only worse. I am horrified that I am the kind of person who did something like this and is not horrified by the action itself, just at my capability to perform it."
"You do have a heart, Mary," says Matthew with deepest conviction. "You have a good heart that feels things very deeply. Whoever told you otherwise, was deadly wrong."
"Matthew," she says, feeling so exhausted she is close to swaying on her feet, but at the same time better and more like herself than she has in weeks. "I know this is most inappropriate of me to ask... But could you stay with me for a bit as I fall asleep? Maybe the dreams won't come if I know you are here, safe."
His eyes and voice are both soft when he answers:
"Of course. I will stay for as long as you need me."
They both know that it's impossible for him to keep his promise. He is going to be needed at the camp in a short time. But she knows that he means it; that he will stay as long as he can, at least, and that he would stay forever if she needed him to and he could. It's enough for now.
They walk upstairs and Matthew waits outside her door as she readies herself for bed. When she calls him to come in, she is already lying under her coarse woollen blanket, her hair in a loose braid, her hand reaching for his. He sits down on the rickety chair by her bed, as he did after the gas attack, and clasps her hand tightly.
She falls asleep with Matthew's hand in hers and it turns out she has been right: she doesn't wake up due to a nightmare for the first time in two weeks.