Hello friends, I hope your day has been full of light. Here's another chapter for you.

Dickon hoisted himself off the back of the brougham. The station was quiet in the early dawn light, and a heavy rain was falling. The only people around were a few military men, come to direct the new recruits, and the dozen or so new recruits themselves. The young men, most of them familiar to Dickon, huddled under a small overhanging roof to keep out of the weather, their faces a mix of terror, stoicism and glum resignation.

"Eh, tha's a sorry lo', that is," commented Horace as he surveyed the small grouping of men. "Nowt but farmers' ducklin's, they are. As made for fightin' as I am for bein' King."

Dickon smiled wryly at the old man's humour, although in truth his words were painfully accurate. He wondered if he looked as scared and intimidated as they did, and squared his shoulders in an attempt at confidence.

Horace busied himself in adjusting the horse's bridle, before turning to Dickon and fixing him with a penetrating stare. "Tha' was missed a' th' Manor this week lad."

Dickon shifted uncomfortably. It was true that he'd been avoiding Misselthwaite. He'd made just the one trip all week, the day after receiving news of his conscription, and even then he'd timed it so as to avoid both Mary and Colin, waiting on the moor until he saw their carriage leave for town. Then he'd gone straight to Archibald Craven and told him that he would be required to leave his post as gardener. Lord Craven had been stunned, and had spent the best part of an hour trying to convince Dickon not to go, promising him that he could speak to someone and obtain an exception on his behalf. But Dickon had stubbornly refused, his mind full of Colin's words and the thought of staying in Yorkshire while Mary went away to London, and eventually Mr Craven had given up. He had asked, then, whether Dickon had told Colin and Mary, and Dickon replied that no, he hadn't, and if Lord Craven would pass on the message he would be most obliged. This had left Archibald Craven looking deeply troubled.

"You don't want to tell them yourself?" he asked with a frown.

"No sir," he had answered, looking at his shoes. "T'is better this way."

"Better?" echoed Lord Craven disbelievingly. "I can hardly believe that. Have the three of you quarrelled? I know both Mary and Colin have been wandering around looking wretched the last few days. What's happened?"

Dickon shrugged. He wasn't about to repeat the conversation he and Colin had had in the library.

Mr Craven sighed heavily. "You must not leave on such a note, Dickon," he said. "If you – if something were to happen… do you really want this to be your last memory of them?"

He made no reply. He didn't think he could speak even had he wanted to. Of course he didn't want this to be his last memory of them. He didn't want to think that this would be his last of anything. But Colin had made it more than clear that he did not consider Dickon a friend. And Mary… seeing her would only make it harder to do what needed to be done. It was too painful. She made him dream of things that could never be. Better a quick, clean cut, for healing's sake.

"Mary will be heartbroken," said Archibald softly. His plain speaking jolted Dickon from his silence.

"She'll find someone else in London," he said, repeating the same words he had made himself say over and over on the walk across the moor, the words that made it possible to leave. "An' then she will… she will forge'."

There was a long silence. "That may be so," said Mr Craven doubtfully "But I can't help but think… this isn't right. Are you sure you will not stay? They will be home from town in a few hours."

He shook his head. He couldn't see her. "I canna stay. I leave for France on Friday, an' I won' be back here afore then. An'…," he swallowed. "An' please tell her – tell her no' t' come t' th' cottage. I… I don' wan' t' see her." A blatant lie, but somehow he found the strength to say it.

"I'll tell her," said Mr Craven, the lines of worry and concern on his face showing starkly in the firelight. "But I doubt she'll listen. Love doesn't work like that, I'm afraid."

She didn't listen, of course. Mary never did. But Dickon had anticipated her stubbornness and had left early the next morning, slipping away unseen so that no one knew where he had gone. He watched from the bough of a tree in a far away gully, a secret hiding spot he had gone to often as a child when the noise and bustle of the cottage became too much for him. He saw her dismount quickly from her horse and run inside, her hair still flowing down her back as though she had been too impatient to pin it up before leaving. He longed to jump down from his hiding place and run to her, to catch her up in his arms and hold her close… but he stayed where he was, watching as she left the house a few minutes later with her shoulders slumped. He didn't move as she gazed around at the surrounding moor, as though hoping to catch a glimpse of him. He stayed motionless as she yelled his name, and he repeated Colin's words over and over to drown out her pleading voice. What can you possibly give her… a barn full of animals and screaming children… nothing but a common moor boy…

When he returned to the cottage later that day, his mother didn't greet him with her usual smile. Instead she frowned at him and shook her head.

"I never pegged thee for a fool, Dickon Sowerby," she said severely, stirring the contents of a giant pot hung above the fire."But seems as like I was wrong."

Her words stung him. He had always held his mother's opinion in the highest regard, and it was rare indeed for her to be disappointed in him. "I've no choice," he mumbled, and she turned on him sharply.

"There's always a choice!" she snapped, brandishing her wooden spoon at him as though he was five years old again. "I raised thee better than t' go an' break tha' poor girl's heart."

"I'm doin' the righ' thing!" he all but shouted back. "I won' have Mary throwin' away her future for me. She deserves better."

His mother made a sound of disgust and turned back to the fire.

And so he took to avoiding the cottage as well, leaving well before dawn and returning long after his family had gone to bed. He roamed over the moors, trying to catch some of that elusive magic of his childhood. But even that had deserted him.

"Eh, lad?" Horace's voice jerked him abruptly out of his reverie, and Dickon came painfully back to the present, to the rain and the cold and the sound of the train warming its engine for departure. "Tha'd better get goin'. Thy train's abou' t' leave."

"Right," he said, shouldering his pack and turning to bid the old man farewell. "Well, I – " he broke off, the words sticking in his throat.

"Better come back safely boy," said Horace gruffly, clipping the horse's reigns. "She'll never forgive thee, if tha' doesn'."

And then he was off, and Dickon was alone. He squared his jaw and took a step toward the waiting train. This was his reality now. Childhood was over. So why did everything feel so wrong?

A/N: Ah, World War One. What a dastardly time that was, and poor old Dickon right in the thick of it. I hope you enjoyed, let me know if you did, and see you next time! ~A