[anne of green gables] come back home (part i)

[nen_yim]

Title: Come Back Home
Fandom: Anne of Green Gables
Rating: PG-13 (for swearing and the occasional thematic violence; possible trigger-y depictions of war)
Summary: AU. Walter survives Courcelette. In a way.
Notes: On the amount of research I did: to quote daniellafromage, "More than some, less than she should have." My apologies for any mistakes or general WTF-ery. Chapter titles are linked to whatever I took them from.

part i | part ii | part iii | part iv | part v

prologue: we are the lucky ones

~

He wakes up away from the front lines, in a field hospital full of warmth and voices -- so many voices. Not shouts like in the trenches; only murmurs and whispers, the occasional groan of men in pain. How long has it been since he heard someone murmur? It seems like all he can recall is screaming, orders barked across the lines and then anguished cries as friends and comrades died around him. There's a quiet hum of activity around him, buzzing like the flies that surrounded the dead in the trenches.

"You're awake."

The nurse is young and lovely, with a lilting accent and sweet, hopeful eyes. Walter is sure he's seen her on a propaganda poster somewhere, urging him to fight for the lands that bore daughters like her. Are German girls this lovely? He almost laughs. As if the bloom of youth and optimism can only be confined to one empire. They're not so different. That's what he's learned.

He cannot move, not really. He tries to recall, but finds that it’s all a blur -- a haze of shells and fire and ducking behind sandbags -- and then the gas. The scrambling for their masks and he’d gotten his on in time (hadn’t he?) but he’d torn his jacket a week ago, yes, this he remembers, and the words of his commanders, the gas will get at any uncovered skin, so be sure to patch up --

Ah.

The burns will heal, the medic tells him. He’ll never be quite comfortable again, but soon it will not hurt so much to move his arms or turn his body.

His leg is another matter. He’d been hit by a shell -- or two -- they tell him, in the thigh (there’s an artery there, a big one, and the largest bone in the body, Walter remembers from his father’s books and Jem’s doctor talk). This Walter does not remember -- it must have happened after he’d passed out.

He will walk again, in a manner of speaking -- they show him pictures of survivors, men standing with their canes and crutches, gripping them like old Elder Clow back home -- ancient before their time. But it is not this that worries Walter. It is their faces, their eyes, empty and staring at something only they can see. Does he look like that now?

Lucky, they say. Lucky to be burned and bent, twenty-three and hobbled like an old man. Walter understands, in a way. He nods his head as if he agrees.

~

His days settle into a pattern. They change his bandages, stitch and re-stitch his leg, clean his wounds. They’re not quite quick enough -- infection settles in, and Walter loses another month to fires and pain and the certainty that this time, he will die.

He does not.

On his skin, the burns blister, then settle. Walter learns how to angle his body when he sleeps, so as not to put pressure on the burns on his back.

His family has been notified and he receives letters by the bundle. They are kind and warm and full of sympathy. Walter is glad for them, but somehow -- they do not touch him. The once-familiar feeling of his soul being filled by beautiful words or images or sounds doesn’t come. It is as though he is holding his own emotions at arm’s length.

But he cannot tell them that, so he writes back, trying to recall how he used to talk, what the Walter-that-was would say.

The pretty nurse brings him their responses and lightly jokes about the volume of mail, but Walter cannot bring himself to appreciate her beauty or her sweetness.

The wounds slowly heal. Some of them, at least.

~

1917 comes and scar tissue forms. They send him to a hospital, a real one in a building with walls and floors, to make way in the field tent for more groaning, injured men.

He learns to walk with a cane, learns to tread without slamming it down onto the floor when he forgets and tries to use a leg that is useless. Some of the other men arrange races, tottering down the hallways, laughing through their bitterness. Walter even wins one, once, and for a moment he feels just a bit lighter.

~

Sometimes they go out together, in a group -- safety in numbers. It’s easier, this way, to pretend that the stares aren’t directed at one of them, individually -- Hartley and his missing arm, Macdonald with his eyepatch, Burrows’s smile twisted at the corner by a scar that slices down his face, Blythe with his cane and shiny, burn-scarred skin peeking out above his collar.

Sometimes they talk, sometimes they play cards or football (this Walter can only watch), and he almost forgets. Then he has to go back to his hospital bed and receive his inspections, and it all comes back.

He’ll have to stay here forever, he thinks. No one will ever want to play cards with him again except these other soldiers, just as damaged as he is. They’ll all just have to live together, a house of the ruined.

He’s almost reconciled to the idea when they tell him that he is to be released. Not fully healed, but out of danger, they say, as though they never hear the shouts and weeping of the men in the night. But he is not going back to the front, able-bodied as he no longer is. No, he is going home.

"Lucky bastard," murmurs Burrows, whose ruined visage is nevertheless still capable of sight, speech, and hearing, so back to France he will be going.

Lucky. Walter tries to believe it.

take me home

~

Bring mich nach Hause. It's funny, Walter thinks, that he only learns about the Germans once he's sent to destroy them. Take me home. The last plea of several soldiers, murmured words of dying bodies he'd stepped over in no-man's land.

He takes a shuddered breath, turning to look out the train window. He is not there any longer, if he can believe that. It is still too - surreal. The journey across the ocean, the first step onto Canadian land - it was only a few days ago, but already it seems like a dream, separated from the present. Outside he sees the green sweetgrass and the familiar red roads, and he wonders how he can be here when he cannot seem to leave there in his own mind, no matter how hard he tries.

The train arrives at one o'clock, exactly on schedule - how could he have ever complained about the Glen trains being late? Things are always on time here, not like at the front, where trains are stopped and horses cannot pass through the mud (and the fire and the shells and the corpses).

He shakes his head, a habit he's developed since leaving the front. You're not there anymore. As if he can toss the memories off like water, like Dog Monday after a bath.

When he gets off the train, they've all gathered to welcome him home - his family, Susan, and the Merediths. He's glad the rest of the Glen hasn't come along, either in celebration or curiosity. He knows he's the first of their sons to come back home, but the idea of being around all those people makes him ill.

"Walter!"

Rilla reaches him first, throwing her arms around him, her body colliding into his with an alarmingly solid thump. For a moment, Walter thinks his gangly baby sister will break him, the soldier, in half. She smells of soap and grass and all the things of home, and Walter feels just a little safer. Rilla is laughing and crying, just a bit, and Walter has to smile - just a bit, too. He doesn't want her to cry over him (but if she knew what he's seen, she probably would never stop).

Then Mother and Father. Walter has never resisted their hugs the way Jem has, but he finds himself standing stiff and awkward when they embrace him. He wants to fall into their arms like a child; he wants to stand straight and tall as he was trained. He can't bring himself to quite do either.

Susan - good, solid Susan - takes her turn holding him, then steps back and sniffs in disapproval. "I trust in the British army as much as anyone else," she says, "but I did think they'd be feeding you blessed boys better."

Walter finds his mouth quirking up into a smile. Some things, at least, have not changed, and that is a relief. Perhaps he can learn to breathe easily again here, after all.

Reverend and Mrs. Meredith are next, clasping his free hand and murmuring words that Walter doesn't quite hear. Mr. Meredith's eyes are placid and gentle, and when he takes his hand, he gives Walter a searching look, as though Walter has some kind of answer that he needs to know.

Then Una. She steps forward and Walter recalls with sudden clarity the kiss he gave her before he left. He still isn't sure why he had done it - he had been so sure that he wouldn't see home again, and perhaps that is all. But a kiss goodbye is one thing. One upon reunion is quite another.

Thankfully, she doesn't seem to expect it, and only reaches out to touch his hand. Her fingers are surprisingly cold.

"I'm glad you're back," she says, simply.

He can only nod, wonders what to say to her - he'd thought about her surprisingly often while he was overseas, but somehow it doesn't seem to be significant, not with her here in front of him. Not that it matters - anything either of them intend to say is cut off by little Bruce, who tugs at his trouser leg and asks if he saw Jem over in France, and did he tell him that Bruce has been extra good so that Jem will come home; he says an extra prayer every night and he let Timothy Crawford have two of his favorite stamps from his collection - "And that was an act of charity, wasn't it?"

They all laugh then, and the Merediths whisk Bruce away before Walter can disappoint him.

"We'll visit soon," Rosemary says. "It's good to have one of our boys back."

She means it kindly, Walter is sure, but he feels an odd sort of panic. They'll want to hear about the war, eventually. They'll want him to tell them what it was like to fight for his country; they'll want him to tell them that it hasn't been in vain, that their sons will come back and everything will be as it was before.

Walter has never been a very good liar.

~

Rilla holds his arm and chatters all the way home, telling him about Jims and the Junior Reds. He hadn't really realized how much he missed her, how much of her personality could never be captured in letters.

"Olive Kirk is unbearable," she sighs, balancing Jims expertly on her hip as she helps Walter out of the buggy. Walter is almost alarmed at how natural she looks with the child - Rilla, who abhorred children, who could barely take care of herself, let alone another human being. How things change.

Not that she's lost her flair for the dramatic, of course - she claims to be in the depths of despair over Irene Howard. "She is odious, honestly, and now everything is mess because we're all on different sides and no one will let the other side get anything done" - but her infamous italics are noticeably absent, and Walter has the strangest feeling that he is talking to an equal, someone who has grown and suffered. Not a little sister, not a baby.

"You've changed," he tells her, cutting off whatever rant she's about to go on. He'd realized it in her letters, of course - she'd become more serious, more considerate in her writing. But it's in her very presence now that he realizes just how much.

She blinks. "Have I?"

He smiles a little, wishing he had a free hand to wrap around her shoulders like the old times. "Yes. I don't think even Jem could call you a baby anymore."

Her lips quirk, but something sad flickers in her eyes when he says Jem's name, and he wants to kick himself. Of course. It had been easy to pretend, in the trenches - hear the whispers of troop movement and the relief of knowing that, even for a brief time, someone you loved was away from the front lines. Easy to pretend that it would always be so.

"I don't mind 'baby' so much as 'Spider'," she sniffs, her tone light. Trying to make the conversation easier.

Walter is about to respond, but then he crosses the threshold and it hits him that he is home. Ingleside's parlor looks the same as it always has, the afternoon sunlight catching the glass on the mantle, and he can hear Susan preparing lunch in the kitchen - it is as it always was in his dreams, but this is not a dream. He is here, for good this time.

He's not sure he can breathe.

Rilla notices the change, notices his lack of response, and curls her arm protectively around his. His baby sister, consoling him. Well - isn't that how it was, before he left, when being called coward was the worst that had happened to him? Perhaps he hasn't won any strength of his own in France after all.

"Susan made a batch of monkey faces," she says, pulling him back to reality. "It's a good thing Shirley's away, or you two would have to fight over them."

Walter's mouth quirks, as he tries to ignore the sting that Shirley's name causes - his silent little brother, gone without fuss or ceremony. "I'm afraid Shirley would have the advantage there," he says, shifting his weight briefly to his bad leg. "But then, that would never happen. You know Susan would make a batch especially for him - you and I would have to do the fighting, Rilla-my-Rilla."

She breaks into a smile, apparently relieved that he can still joke, and impulsively throws her arms around him, nearly knocking him off balance.

"I missed you," she says, her voice muffled in his collar.

Walter wishes he could hug her back without falling over, but she lets him go before he can try.

"Sorry," she says. "I - forgot."

He gives her a small smile. "I forget sometimes, too."

"Really?"

He tells her about when he'd first received his crutches and then his cane, how he would try to step forward on his injured leg or let go of his crutches to open a door. Rilla smiles as though uncertain whether or not she should laugh.

He wants to tell her that it is okay, that all he wants is for everything to be as it was before, but he's not sure if that's even possible - and Susan calls for lunch before he can even try.

His plate is heaped with some of his favorite foods - he has at least twice the amount as everyone else.

"Oh, Susan," Mother says, laughing. "You'll make him explode."

Susan purses her lips. "I have not given him that much food, Mrs. Dr. dear - and Walter could never look like one of those horrible zeppelins anyway. Those European languages really are something else, but I'm not sure even those strange French names could be quite as ugly as that language the Germans made up - "

German hadn't always been ugly, not all the time. Sometimes they could hear the conversation from the opposing side, across no-man's land, the rhythm of jas and bittes, ist and sehr, Vater unser im Himmel, geheiligt werde dein Name...

Susan is still talking. "What were they feeding you at the front? I'd write to that Winston Churchill - he's no Lord Kitchener, to be sure - but then, note-writing is more President Wilson's territory, and I do not approve of that man's tactics."

They all chuckle, careful not to laugh too loudly and offend Susan, who always speaks in utmost seriousness when it came to such matters.

"We mostly ate bread," Walter says, in response to her question. "Sometimes meat, but tinned meat isn't exactly - the most savory thing you'll ever eat. Tea, water, beer…" He shrugs. Only a few months - or has it been longer? - and he's already forgotten what he'd eaten, day in and day out - the same meal every day. Memory is strange that way.

Susan frowns. "You haven't started drinking, have you?"

Dad coughs loudly in an attempt to cover up his laughter. Walter thinks he smiles, but he's not sure his face quite makes it there.

~

His room is the same as it always has been - not a thing has been moved. He runs a finger along his bookshelf, but it comes away clean. Of course - Susan still would've dusted, keeping it ready for him. She is like that.

He sits on the bed - his bed - his rucksack (a German word, he remembers, they hate them so much but yet they share so many things) at his feet. He knows the contents well - another set of clothes, his letter of discharge, his medal of "Distinguished Conduct" - as though he'd done anything distinguished - the few photos and trinkets he'd taken with him to the front, some poems, his letters. This is it, then, he thinks. All the proof that he was ever there, ever survived. All that separates him from the Walter-that-was and the Walter-that-is.

No more of that. This is why he had gone in the first place, isn't it? To prove that he is bigger than his fears, bigger than cowardice and petulance - big enough to see beyond himself. What was it Nan had said, one night before he left? "The way Walter broods, you'd think this was his war alone." He had hated her in that moment, but over in Flanders, had realized that she was right. That was the night he had written "The Piper."

He feels the sudden urge to see the poem, to look at his words and know they are real. It takes him a minute to reach his bag - he can't quite bend the way he used to, skin pulling painfully as it stretches and joints protesting as he leans down. You should ask Elder Clow how he gets up in the morning, Ken had joked in his last letter. Walter's not sure that's such a terrible idea.

The magazine that printed his poem is in a bundle with several unanswered letters - he has to write back, he reminds himself. He traces the black print with his fingertips, reading his own words back to himself. What matter that if Freedom still be the crown of each native hill? It was worth it. He has to believe that.

(There is another poem, one more difficult to read, crushed at the bottom of his bag. But he will not think on that, not now, not in his room bright with sunshine, surrounded by everything he loves. Those thoughts have no place here.)

He replaces the magazine and looks at the letters. The first one is from Di - Di, his favorite sister, his confidant. He can't even remember what she had written to him about. That makes him feel guilty - he has not been the best brother.

Or the best friend, he adds mentally as he looks through the rest - Jerry and Carl and Ken and Faith and Una had all written to him while he was in the hospital, and he had only responded with short notes telling them that he was returning to the Glen. He has to write them something real now. Una, he decides, he can leave - anything he wants to tell her, he can say in person.

The rest, though…He sighs. He's not sure what to tell them. But he's ignored them long enough.

Walter sits down at his desk - his desk with its upright chair, different pens in the old jam jar he'd taken from the pantry. No more crouching over in the damp and dirt, peering through candlelight, trying not to press too hard for fear he'll tear the paper against whatever flimsy surface he's writing upon.

No, he is home, and he is safe. Soon, everything will be right again.

As he writes to Di, telling her all that has transpired, using his way with words to regale her as if it were all an adventure, he almost begins to think it true.

enough to go by

~

The day begins like any other, like all the days have for the last three years. Has it really been three years? Una thinks. Sometimes she wonders if time really is passing at all. Seasons slip by, Bruce grows taller and Father and Rosemary develop lines on their faces that are a bit too premature, but they are still trapped in limbo - the whole world holding its breath until this war is over. She has been twenty for three and a half months now, and she feels just as aimless as she had at seventeen. She cannot possibly look to the future, not when it is so uncertain.

Una is carefully sorting through Rosemary's music books when the phone rings. Her stepmother has been busier and busier, and as such Una is now giving her music lessons to the littlest Clow girls, twice a week. Rosemary insists that she keep their payment for herself, and Una has a little collection of savings now, tucked away in one of her drawers. She likes it, she finds - her own money to use however she wishes, to save for the future or spend on frivolities. She likes planning the songs she'll teach to the girls, and they are thankfully well-behaved, for Una has never been much of a disciplinarian. She hums a bit as she shakes a leaf of sheet music from one of the books. It is a nice song, simple. She'll use it in the next lesson.

It is these thoughts that are interrupted when John Meredith comes in. He has an odd expression on his face, as though he perhaps isn't sure if he's feeling the correct emotion.

"That was Ingleside," he says.

Una frowns. Calls from Ingleside are not uncommon, given the close ties between the manse and the doctor's house, but her father's expression is giving her pause. Her mind races through the possibilities - does Rilla need to see her? Something about the Junior Reds? Or - no, that is too commonplace for the look on her father's face. Perhaps it's something else. Perhaps one of them is ill, gravely so. They need her father for their last rites. Nerves start in Una's stomach.

She is so absorbed in this thought that she almost doesn't hear her father - almost. But she could never miss his next words - if he had whispered them in an upstairs room behind a locked door, she would have heard them.

"Walter Blythe is coming home."

The sheet music slips out of Una's hands. She blinks and quickly gathers it back up, ducking her head to avoid her father's gaze. They are alike - too alike - and she's sure that he could decipher her feelings in an instant. And Una is not prepared for that to happen.

"Oh," she says. "That's - good. Isn't it?"

"I'm sure the Blythes are relieved. We all are," he adds.

There's something he's not saying - something he won't tell her. But Una thinks she knows. She remembered the letter he had sent Rilla, that Rilla had shown her. It had come a few weeks after the news that he had been injured, and it had been painful to read - his certainty that he would die, and his relief. "And life, I think, would be the harder of the two to face - for it could never be beautiful for me again."

But nothing has turned out the way anyone expects, not since that summer of 1914 - a tiny, critical part of Una that she desperately tries to ignore thinks that Walter should know that by now. They all should.

"It will be good to have one of them back," she says, turning back to the sheet music, trying to hide the shaking of her fingers.

"Una - " her father starts, but then stops. Instead, he gives a little shake of his head and turns back towards the door. "Yes, I suppose it will."

~

When the train pulls in, Rilla Blythe lets out a breath so quiet that only Una hears it. She understands. They have all been waiting, anticipation curled in their stomachs like springs for the last month. Every day, Una had half-expected to hear that he had gotten sick again, or his train had been delayed, or they had changed their minds and decided to send him back to France.

Now, though - now Walter is stepping off the train, all faded khaki and dark hair. Una stands back with her father and Rosemary, Bruce clinging to her skirt, as the Blythes embrace the first of their sons to return - and God willing, not the only one.

"He looks - " Rosemary starts, but then she falls silent. John Meredith silently touches her arm.

The Blythes let him go and Walter comes over, a bit unsteadily. He looks - Una finds that she doesn't know the right words, either. He is still recognizably Walter, in the same way an adult is similar to a childhood picture. Perhaps he is still the same height. But how thin he is! Walter had never seemed to take up as much space as Jem or Shirley - when people noticed Shirley at all, that is - but he had never been spare, not the way he is now. And is that gray in his hair?

The top two buttons of his shirt are undone, and Una can see skin, bright pink and stretched tight. On his left side, it creeps up onto his neck, almost to his jaw. She swallows. She'd heard what had happened to him, but knowing is different from seeing. She wonders if it still hurts him very much.

It's her turn, now. She steps forward, wondering what to do: take his hand? Kiss his cheek? Kiss his mouth, the way he had her before he left? But no, that was only the kiss of a friend, and - he hadn't thought he'd return, anyway. She settles for extending a hand. He clasps it in his own, just for a moment. The tips of his fingers are rough with calluses - Walter, who had always been so gentle.

"I'm glad you're back," she says - it is all she can think of to say. He says nothing, only nods. She peers up into his eyes and a quiet shock passes through her. Walter's eyes have always made her shiver, not unpleasantly, but this - this is not the same. There's something in his eyes, something empty. What has happened to you, Walter?

She wants to ask but she cannot - not here and maybe not ever. It doesn't matter, anyway, for Bruce has interrupted with his chatter. His says one of his silly, dear, childlike things and they all laugh. Then he asks about Jem and something shifts in Walter's face. Una sees it, and so does her father, for he quickly steps in and tells Bruce that he still has to finish his schoolwork.

Una looks back as they walk away, but Walter is not looking at her. Nor is he looking at anyone else - he is standing still as his family bustles around him, eyes staring into the distance at something they cannot see.

Una shivers, this time with trepidation, and turns to walk home.

~

Dear Una,

I'm still settling in here, but I thought I ought to let you know how I'm doing - I miss you terribly and writing you is the closest I guess I'll be able to get to talking to you until this war is over. I've been rooming with five(!) other girls, and more to come, and sometimes I roll over in the night and think it's you in the bed across from me. Lillian - for that is her actual name - is getting very tired of being called "Una," I'm sure.

I hope you're not working too hard. I know we should all do their part, but sometimes I think you do your part and all of ours, as well. Or perhaps I'm worrying too much - big sisterly habits die hard, I suppose. I always forget that you're twenty now. So I'll stop nagging - I know it drove me insane when Jerry did it, and now here I am!

It's easy to be cheerful right now, but Una, I am worried. Sometimes it's worse being over here. It was bad enough worrying about all the boys - men - at home, but now - it's worse knowing you could go to them - just take a boat and then walk to where they are, but not being able to. At least in Canada there was the excuse of an ocean between us.

I'm sorry I'm so maudlin, dear. Oh - that's a Walter-ism, isn't it? I must have picked it up from one of his letters. How is he? It's so odd, he used to write in such a way that you could almost feel him talking to you, and now I stare at his letters and wonder what he's trying to say. But he sounds like he's getting better. I'm sure you know more than I do.

But never mind that. I'm sure things are all right. I'm trying to be nice and cheerful, but I'm all run down from nursing and studying and examining. I start the day off in as good a mood as I can, and by the time I have time to write, I'm as grouchy and pessimistic as any Sophia Crawford. I wish I were more like you, Una - but then, if I were you, you would be me, and I certainly wouldn't wish that on anyone!

There, I think that was a less grumpy note to end on. I wish I didn't have to end this at all, but early-to-bed and early-to-rise is the way around here. I'm seeing my first real patients tomorrow and Una, I'm scared to death. But I'm sure they're scared too, so we'll just be scared together, and it will all work out fine. Give my love to Father and Rosemary and Bruce, and give Stripey a hug from me too.

Love,
Faith

~

"Una?"

Una blinks, the world settling back into focus around her. Rosemary is looking at her from across the breakfast table, half-expectant, half-concerned.

"I'm sorry," she says, shifting uncomfortably in her chair. This is not the first time someone has had to call her back to Earth since - oh, you may as well admit it - since Walter returned. She only hopes no one has made the connection.

"It's all right," Rosemary says gently. "I was asking if you would pass the butter."

"Oh!" Una gives her a small, guilty smile and hands over the dish. "I'm sorry," she repeats. "I just - I don't know where my head is, lately."

Her stepmother only smiles. "Or your stomach," she says. "You've hardly eaten."

Una frowns and looks down at her plate - it's barely been touched. She hadn't even noticed.

"I don't have much of an appetite, I suppose," she murmurs. "In fact - may I be excused? I'll take any dishes you're finished with."

Rosemary looks at her as though she's trying to decipher something, and Una quickly escapes to the kitchen with an armload of plates and silverware. She wonders how long she can hide behind her chores and her books before someone confronts her. For she has been distracted, she knows. It has been a week since Walter returned, and sometimes Una wonders if she hasn't just imagined it - if she'll go to Ingleside and find the house empty of its men, that it's all been a hallucination and Walter really is still back in France.

She hasn't visited, either, though she's not sure why. It would be so simple to drop by to talk with Rilla, bring Mrs. Blythe flowers from the manse garden, knit something for Jims. But Una doesn't want to make excuses, not anymore, and not with Walter.

It doesn't matter, anyway, she tries to convince herself as she scrubs a plate with somewhat unnecessary enthusiasm. She has seen Walter only once since he came back, in church. He sat there with his face impassive, and the Blythes left quickly afterwards, Rilla walking close to Walter, as though she must protect him. She probably does - the rest of the Glen stared and whispered, and Una hears them murmur about him - his silence, his reluctance to leave the house - all the time. Some of them mean to be kind, she knows, but she also knows that they would hurt him, somehow.

Faith's last letter had mentioned him writing her, but he had never written Una back, and nobody in the Glen has spoken to him. And - now that Una thinks about it, he had not even said a word to her at the train station. This stings, more than Una wants it to. They had exchanged letters when he went to Redmond and when he went to the front, letters that spoke of deeper things than the two of them had ever discussed before. And she had thought - she had thought - well. Perhaps it had only been a foolish girl's dream, as so many of Una's have been. She is twenty years old now, too old, she thinks, for wishing and wanting. If Walter doesn't care for her, then - then that is that, and that is all.

She is so immersed in making her new resolution that she doesn't notice the unusual vim she's been washing a knife with. It is just a butter knife, but when it slips, it manages to slice the surface of her palm. For a moment she only stares in surprise, then tiny beads of blood begin to well up and she squeaks and rushes to bandage it.

This is ridiculous, she decides later, as she tries to unbutton her dress with only one hand. What will it be next? Will she slip and fall into the stream, lost in thoughts of Walter Blythe? Step into the street without noticing that an automobile is coming? She cannot keep thinking of him like this, so often.

It is only that he is so close now, closer than he's been since they were children - not away at Queen's, not in Lowbridge or Kingsport - and everything is so different. Maybe this time, maybe now.

Or maybe she is pinning all her hopes to a feeling he may never return. He is not the same Walter that had left for the front two years ago, that much is obvious.

Una manages to maneuver her way out of her dress and into her nightgown, pulls her hair loose from its braid, and flicks off the light. She curls under the covers and prays that if - when - she sleeps, she won't dream of gray eyes and poetry.

wounds without words

~

Walter,

Things are holding up pretty well here. I had a short leave a while ago and went to see London - you know, I went back to all the places I visited with Mother and Dad and Persis so long ago, and somehow - they're not anything like they used to be. I wondered if maybe they'd changed it all - but it's me, Walt. I guess I'd been thinking that once I'm away, everything - including myself - would just snap back like nothing's happened.

It's a bit of a relief to write to someone who knows how it is. I love my parents and Persis - and all the chums I've been writing to back home - but it's hard to make it all sound like an adventure. At best, it's tedium - we've nearly worn the cards out from playing so many games - and I'm pretty sure one of the men in my regiment is a cheat - and at worst…well, you know.

Though I know how annoying it is to be repeatedly asked about an injury, I'm afraid I have to pose the question: how's the leg? If it makes you feel any better, I went and got myself cut across the face the other day. It looks to be shaping up into a nice little scar - if only it had a more dashing origin. I'm sure people will be enthralled with my tale of tripping over a sandbag and landing facedown.

Wish I could write more, but there's early rising to do tomorrow. I've written to most of them myself, but do say 'hi' to everyone at Ingleside from me.

Ken

~

Dear Walter,

I'm so glad to hear from you. I was worried, you know, when you didn't write back so quickly. But then - you're busy. We're all busy now, I guess. I left a letter from Faith Meredith for almost a month before I remembered to reply! Cutting "vermin shirts" (or "cootie sarks," as Rilla wrote to me - Walter, are we getting old? I'm not scandalized, exactly, but I did think it strange language for a sixteen-year-old girl to use. Then I realized that's the kind of thing Susan - or heaven forbid, Mrs. Sophia Crawford - would say and I promptly set about accepting Rilla's slang) distracts one more than you'd expect.

Redmond isn't the same without you. Mother told me not to write to you about university yet, but I can't keep secrets from you. Nan and I've been having to drop at least one class every term to make time for the Red Cross, and I don't expect we'll graduate anytime soon. But that's all right, isn't it? You can come back - when you're ready - and we'll study together. It's nice to think about such hopeful things - "when you come back," "when the war is over." It's all that really keeps me going, sometimes.

There! I promised myself I wouldn't get morbid - Nan says I'm brooding as much as you ever did - and here I am. I'm sorry. To talk of happier topics: it's almost summer, and I intend to come back to see you, even if it's just for a little while - I'd stay the whole vacation, but the Red Cross is always so shorthanded. Or - if it's not too strenuous, do come to Kingsport. Redmond's not quite the same, but you could visit me and Nan and see some of our friends. Alice Parker's been missing you, you know. But - I don't want to make you feel obligated. It's an awful feeling, isn't it? Sometimes I think I can't even remember what it felt like to have a moment to myself. To quote Nan, just this week: "I think the only time that truly belongs to me anymore is the two minutes when I wake up and haven't remembered all of my obligations yet!"

This letter is dreadfully scattered. If it were an essay, I'm sure my English professor would tear it up for being so unfocused. But surely my aspiring English professor brother will be more lenient?

There's not much else to tell you, I'm afraid. It's the same sort of schedule, every day - wake up, go to class, meet with the Red Cross, more class, more meetings, homework and Red Cross work, and then I collapse into bed wondering why I ever thought I'd enjoy college! But there, I'm glad to be here and I'm glad to be doing my part.

It's good to hear that you're doing better. I'm sure Mother and Susan are spoiling you beyond belief. And poor Jims has probably been abandoned since you came home (only joking! Don't tell Rilla, for I'm sure she'd be horribly indignant that I even suggested such a thing - she takes her maternal duties very seriously). I'll write more when I have time. And Walter - do remember that you can tell me anything.

All my love,
Di

~

In the dream, the commanding officer gives the order to go over the top, and they obey, as they always do - as they always must. Walter offers to lead the charge, because he has to be brave, he has a medal that says so, and the other men look at him with trust - some with the trust that he will stand by them, do his duty with honor; others with the trust that he will take a bullet so they won't have to.

And over the top they go, rushing towards the opposing lines, towards the guns pointed directly at them, while the officer who gave the order watches in safety. And then suddenly they are not the men from his regiment, they are Macdonald and Burrows from the hospital, and then they are Jem and Jerry and Carl and Ken and Shirley somewhere up above -

Walter wakes up, heart pounding and drenched in sweat, before the dream can progress any further, but it does not matter, for he is already filled with the dread of certainty that everyone he cares about is gone.

He slumps back on his pillow and stares at the familiar crack in the ceiling. (He used to think it looked like a bird, but now he's quite certain it looks like a turtle - what on earth had he been thinking?) His heartbeat is slowing, returning to its regular rhythm, as the dream - nightmare - ebbs away. He inhales, exhales, practicing the breathing exercises they had taught him in the hospital. "Helps keep the memories away," the doctor explained. Walter's not sure if that's true, but it does give him something to focus on. Breathe in, breathe out.

He rolls over to look out the window - he had always loved the view from his room. During nights when he was afraid or worried, the sight of the island stretched out below had always soothed his soul, reminded him that the world was still beautiful for all his fears. The moon hovers pale and full over the groves and dells. Is it his imagination, or does the man-in-the-moon look rather sorrowful tonight? This same moon that hangs over the Flanders trenches, over its graves. Although perhaps it's eye level with Shirley, which is the only comforting thought Walter has.

Eventually he calms, but still he cannot sleep.

~

"Amy MacAllister and I are going up the Harbour Head road to canvass today," Rilla says at breakfast. She smiles apologetically. "I'm sorry, Walter."

Walter only shrugs. Rilla's absence will be disquieting - he's become used to having her around, ready to chatter when he needs to be distracted, and prepared with quiet sympathy when he doesn't. At times, he finds himself doing double-takes, as if he cannot recognize the poised, empathetic creature wearing vain little Rilla's clothes.

"I think I'll be back by dinnertime," Rilla assures him, as though she'd read his mind. "We don't have to go up the whole road, but we may, since Olive Kirk's doing the main road and we'll have to make up all the houses she won't go to. She can't go more than two hours without eating - "

And in some ways, Rilla has not grown up at all.

"Rilla," Mother warns.

"It's true!" Rilla protests. "We had such a fight over eats - but never mind that. It's not so bad, I suppose. People are fonder of the MacAllisters than of the Kirks anyway, so Amy is bound to get more donations."

"And what will you be doing with the funds, sister mine?" Walter asks. "Getting up another concert?"

"No," Dad says with a good-natured groan. "Nothing turned my hair so gray as watching you prepare for that concert, Rilla."

"We're buying more material to sew into coo - vermin shirts," Rilla says, shooting a glance at their parents. "And socks, too. I'm almost good at it now."

"You'd be even better at it if you remembered that socks have heels," Mother says, her eyes dancing.

"I do remember! Half the time, at least."

~

Walter walks Rilla to the door and settles onto the swing on the veranda. He has his notebook with him, full of short verses about Canadian springtime and the sweet return home - lines written and then forgotten; he can't seem to truly string them together.

He's sat here a million times before, but suddenly the view is completely new to him - the winding trail to Rainbow Valley, the creek and the maple grove, the dual spires of the Methodist and Presbyterian churches peeking through the trees. He can smell the clean damp, the world washed anew by the recent rain. He inhales and the air is cold in his lungs.

"What will you do today?" Rilla asks, turning before she goes down the steps.

Walter shrugs. "Read, I suppose. I'd try to help Susan, but you know she doesn't trust me in her kitchen."

Rilla looks uncertain. "Is that all? You could - spend time with Mother, or - "

"Rilla," he says, gently. He knows how he must look to everyone: wandering the house all day, helping Susan with the dishes till she shoos him out of the kitchen. Mother keeps callers away - he doesn't want to speak to anyone. Not yet. He wants to be busy, he wants to rest - wants to talk and reconnect, wants to shrink away inside himself, inside his memories, and never come out. He's not sure what he wants. But there's nothing she can do, and it's best she knows it.

Rilla senses his silent rebuke and flinches almost imperceptibly, but then she smiles and pats his arm. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

Walter smiles - a small, twisted thing, but a smile nonetheless. "You don't have to worry about me, Rilla-my-Rilla."

She gives him her own half-smile back. "Yes, I do."

~

"Well, how was canvassing? Did anyone attack you for daring to ask for money?" Dr. Blythe jokes that evening. For once, he'd had no calls, no emergencies to attend to, and they are all gathered 'round in the living room, Gog and Magog holding court over them.

Anne laughs. "Gilbert, do you remember how we used to go out asking for subscriptions for the AVIS? You'd think we were asking them for their entire life savings, at times. I hope," she says to Rilla, "you had more luck."

"And better results," Gilbert adds. "Lest we forget a certain town hall - "

"Oh, Gil, you're awful!"

Walter's face twists into a small smile. He and Rilla are leaning together on the sofa, she reading her newest letter from Ken Ford - although Walter is the only one privy to that detail. Then again, it may be obvious - certainly Carl Meredith's letters don't make Rilla blush quite so much. Walter trusts that his best friend's intentions are good - if not pure - and so doesn't bother asking what's in the letter. Still, the bright spots of red on Rilla's cheeks make him feel distinctly protective.

"I'm sure it was fine," he offers.

Rilla sniffs indelicately. "It was not," she says. "Irene Howard and Olive Kirk did the Upper Glen road, and they are always trying to shirk their share. They should give them a white feather - if there ever were slackers - "

Rilla's rant is cut off prematurely by Susan, who bustles in with a drawn face.

"A wire came for the Crawfords over-harbor," she says, sitting down and knitting with a vengeance. "Their son is in the hands of the Huns now."

Walter winces. He hates that word, Huns. He cannot see them the way the rest of the Glen seems to, as enemies without faces. All he can see, all he can remember, are the men he faced on the battlefield, men his own age, white to the lips with fear.

None of them had wanted this.

"And who knows what will happen to him in their clutches," Susan is continuing. "Civilized people they are not, and that you may tie to - "

"I daresay the Germans have contributed just as much to civilization as the British Empire," Gilbert says, exchanging a mirthful look with Anne.

Susan sniffs. "Perhaps," she says. "But I do not set my expectations for their humanity very high, Dr. Blythe. What they did to those Belgian babies and now to our men at the front - my bones ached last night and made it hard to get to sleep, so I weighted the Kaiser down with stones and made him stand in the high tide, and that was as good as any lullaby - "

She continues to talk, but a strange buzzing has started in Walter's ears, a strange anger coiling in his chest. The sharpness of his emotions surprises him, when everything he has felt has been so dulled. What does Susan know of death? Would she be glad, he wonders, to know what he's done?

"God," he says. Susan's head snaps up, alarmed, and Walter is glad - glad to alarm and scandalize Susan, shock her with his behavior, have his revenge. "God, stop."

Rilla pulls away from him and gasps quietly. They are all staring at him. Walter cannot bear their looks, but he cannot bear their talk, either. They cannot know. They will never know. He wishes he could explain, but for once, words have failed him.

"Walter - " Mother starts.

He shakes his head. "Don't." Shame at his outburst mingles with his anger and he suddenly cannot be here with them anymore. "I'm going to sleep."

His leg aches by the time he makes it up the stairs unassisted, and he falls into bed, waiting for the nightmares that he can never tell them about.

before it burns me numb

~

April opens with rain and by the second week, it seems to have announced its intentions to close with it, too.

"April showers bring May flowers," Bruce sings. "Will Walter bring Mrs. Blythe the first mayflowers? I'll do it if he can't."

Rosemary smiles at her son's thoughtfulness. "May's still a while off, yet," she says. "But I'm sure Mrs. Blythe would appreciate it."

"Do you know, Una?" Bruce asks. "Could you ask him?"

Una, who has been working on the mending, nearly stabs herself with the needle. She almost laughs. Her hand has just healed, and now she is going to injure it again. Stupid girl.

"If I see him," she promises. That seems good enough for Bruce, who wanders away to go play with Stripey. Rosemary, though, has been looking at her, and moves to sit closer to her.

"You haven't been up to see Walter yet?" she asks.

Una looks down at her hands. "It's only been two weeks. And I've been busy," she says. It is not - entirely - a lie. She is busy, knitting and sewing for the Junior Reds, preparing lessons for the Clow girls, running around after Bruce. But neither is it completely honest. In truth, Una is scared. Scared that if she sees him, she'll reveal herself, her feelings - scared that her selfishness will only increase the distance she saw in his eyes that day at the train station.

Scared that she cares too much for someone who won't - maybe even can't - care for her in return.

Rosemary tilts her head, but allows the explanation. "You're working so hard," she observes.

Una only shrugs. Perhaps she is, but hasn't she always? She had never been like her siblings, going out to meet friends every evening. She spent her free time reading, or practicing piano, doing odd chores, trying to make life easier for everyone.

"It's all right," she tells her.

"Una," Rosemary starts, her hand coming up to cup Una's face. "Don't - don't let this war take you, too."

"It's not," Una says, and Rosemary just shakes her head, eyes sad.

~

The telegram comes the next day.

"Una," her father calls up the stairs, his voice strangled. "Could you come here, for a minute?"

Una had been reading, an old book that she had read hundreds of times before. It only takes her a minute to close it - she doesn't mark her page - and hurry down the stairs. "What's wrong?" She doesn't know how she knows that something is amiss, but she does.

"It's Jerry," John Meredith says. "He's been wounded."

Something in Una's chest relaxes - she had half-expected to hear the other, more horrible option. Then she hates herself for her relief. Wounded is not much better.

"Where?" she asks, wondering. Is he like Walter now, with a limp, skin forever marked by burns? And she's heard of some of the men from over-harbor, limbs missing, eyes blinded by gas. And the silence - none of the men talk as much as they used to. Walter had been quiet by nature, but Jerry - he had always been strong, always quick with a quip or an answer. It seems impossible.

"Shot in the back," her father says. His face is drawn. "They don't - it's too early to say what - effects - " He cannot finish the sentence. Rosemary has one of his hands clasped between hers, and her face too is pale with sorrow.

"They don't know - " Una starts, and her father shakes his head.

She doesn't say anything. What is there to say? She only walks to her father and embraces him. It is not something she does often - he had been so distant from all of them for so long, and she had been too shy to seek affection from him. But his arms go around her in return, then Rosemary slips into their embrace, the three of them holding each other in their grief and worry.

~

"Will Jerry be all right?"

Una looks up from the mending to see Bruce staring at her, eyes wide with curiosity.

"We hope so," she says, trying to smile at him. Are my siblings and I cursed? she wonders. They had been so young when Mother died, had to grow up so fast - Jerry trying to take Father's place at the age of nine, Faith having to help Una with her clothes and plait Una's hair though she could barely do her own. And now Bruce may have to learn those same painful lessons at the age of eight. It's not fair.

"But will he?" Bruce persists.

She sighs, puts the mending aside, and pulls her little brother onto her lap. He is getting too big, now, legs hanging over hers, feet nearly touching the floor. But he will need this comfort.

"We don't know," she admits. "But we're all praying for him - you are praying, aren't you?"

"Every night," he says, solemnly.

She gives him a quick squeeze. "And God is listening." But He hadn't listened when we prayed for Mother - she smothers the thought quickly.

He looks at her, so serious with his thick, dark brows - like hers and like Jerry's - straight above his eyes. Too serious for someone so young. "What if He doesn't?"

Una tries to be cheerful. "Bruce, did you know that everyone in the Glen is praying for Jerry? I'm sure He couldn't ignore us if He tried. Uncle Norman is praying, and you know Uncle Norman can get anyone's attention."

Bruce smiles at this and kicks his legs happily - Una tries to mask her wince when his heels whack directly into the knob of her ankle.

"I believe you," he tells her, and she feels the creeping sensation of guilt.

~

"I nearly bawled when I heard about Jerry," Mary Vance says frankly. "Gee, I think about how we'd play together in the Rainbow Valley days - it doesn't seem right that he's been wounded. Then again," she adds, "nothing about this war seems right."

They're sitting near the bridge that connects Four Winds and the Glen - meeting each other at the half point. That has always been their way.

"Thank you," Una says quietly.

Mary bumps their shoulders together. "Don't be so quiet," she says. "I can't stand to see you sad. He'll pull through all right, I know it. Jerry's never let a thing get him down."

"I hope so," Una murmurs.

"I bet Nan Blythe is crazy. Remember how we used to fight, me and her?"

Una hums her assent and Mary sighs. "Sometimes I think I'd ruther go back to those days, and fight with her day in and day out, as long as we were all back together."

"Oh, Mary," Una says. Mary is rarely soft, and only around Una. She slips her arm through her friend's and rests her head briefly on her shoulder.

It is a testament to Mary's soft spot for Una that she lets her.

~

A few days later, she receives a 'phone call from Rilla, asking if she'd like to spend the day together. Una is a bit surprised that the youngest Blythe girl wants to pass time with her, but agrees. They meet in the village and walk to the train station - Rilla expresses a desire to go to town and 'get away' for a bit, and Una empathizes. She resists the urge to ask about Walter.

"We're sorry about Jerry," Rilla says as they wait for the train. "Nan 'phoned the day she found out, to talk to mother. I don't think they really talked - she just cried."

Una nods. She hadn't cried - couldn't find the energy for it. At night, she had laid in bed, wondering if he would be all right, wondering what would happen if he wasn't. She had tried, over and over again, to picture her world without her older brother in it, and all she could feel was an emptiness.

"Are you all right, Una?"

Una blinks, looks at Rilla. The youngest Blythe girl has grown, is no longer as flighty or selfish as she had been, but the depth of her perception still startles Una. Rilla Blythe knows more than she lets on, this she has discovered.

"Yes," she says. "It's just - everything. You know."

Rilla murmurs an agreement, though it's drowned out by the arrival of the train. The ride to town is quiet, the two girls looking out the window as the countryside whips by.

"I wonder if this is what flying is like, for Shirley," Rilla says.

"I think flying is better," Una says. Rilla nods, and then they are silent.

Una does not go to town often, but somehow she recalls it being very different. It is as busy as ever, but she notices that most of the people in the streets are children, women, and older men. It's not as noticeable in the Glen, she thinks, where they've always been used to the young men being away, at school or teaching. But here - it's glaring. Recruitment posters are everywhere - some of them featuring a mustached gentleman looking very gallant, urging men to join up and prove themselves, others featuring wide-eyed ingenues staring vulnerably out at the viewer: won't you fight for me? Una suppresses a shudder. Somehow she's reminded of the Greek sirens, luring sailors to the rocks with their song.

Rilla does not seem to have a destination in mind, and they wander the streets, looking in shop windows.

"Do you want to buy a new hat?" Una teases - kindly - as they pass the milliner's. Rilla gives a rueful laugh.

"I do need a new one, don't I?" she asks. "Even Mother said she wouldn't mind me giving it up. But I'm sticking to my mutton - oh, that's not right, is it?"

"I think it's 'return to my mutton.' And 'stick to my guns.'"

They both go silent at the mention of guns, for a moment, before Rilla breaks it with a little sigh.

"Oh, look at that blue hat! It would just match your eyes, Una."

Una doesn't say anything, merely marches Rilla past the shop. She doesn't need a new hat, and she doesn't think she wants one, anyway. She thinks of people noticing her and her choice in hats and her soul quails within her.

They end up at the ice cream shop - it is still a bit too cool for ice cream, but Rilla insists, and Una has to admit to a secret weakness for it.

"Una," Rilla says, when they're almost done eating, "I wanted to ask you something."

An odd sense of anticipation curls around Una's heart. "Of course," she says.

"You haven't come by to see Walter," Rilla says.

Has everyone noticed?

"I thought - I thought perhaps you didn't want visitors," Una says lamely.

Rilla gives a small laugh. "Oh, Una, that didn't mean you - or your family. Although," she adds, "I don't think Norman Douglas would be too - beneficial, at the moment."

Una allows herself a small smile, "No," she says. "But he's busy - between the farm and browbeating everyone who doesn't support the war into submission - we barely see him nowadays."

"Anyway," Rilla says, "I was hoping you'd visit."

Una blinks. "Me? Why?"

Rilla shrugs. "I think - I don't mean to pry, but he's told me about your letters - you've always known how to talk to him, Una."

Something in her tone is worrying. "Is Walter all right?"

Rilla bites her lip, swirling her spoon in the melted remains of her ice cream. "I - I don't know. He's not - there's nothing wrong, but - he's just so…quiet. Walter was never quiet - or not the way he is now. I don't know," she says, softer. "He's so - unreachable, now. And a few nights ago - Susan said something, and he got upset. He said - some things. I don't know what to do for him, Una."

"You can't think that I do," Una says quietly.

"No," Rilla says slowly. "I don't think - anyone - does. But you're - you're so patient. You could just - come by every now and then. We'll have lunch and play games. Nan and Di are coming home soon. Please?"

A nervous, excited feeling flares in Una's chest for a moment. She tries to ignore it. If Rilla fears for Walter, then there must be something wrong - something bigger and more important than Una's girlish emotions.

Still, she thinks of seeing him, talking to him, and then thinks of spending time at home, with Father and Rosemary waiting every day for word about Jerry, little Bruce asking questions that she cannot answer. She knows what she's going to say .

"All right."

continue