"Writ on Water" Part II: The Prodigal

by Zephyr

"At the going down of the sun we shall remember them."




He had enlisted on a drunken whim. The idea had come to him in a pub where most of the men who looked his age wore khaki. Where even the `ladies' who worked the evening taunted him for his lack of uniform, though when he spoke and they noticed his American accent, they were more forgiving. It was New Year's Eve, 1915, and England had entered the second year of the Great War. Quentin had been in England since that brilliant summer of 1914. With the world at the brink of war, the bright and promising season played out in a golden haze. It seemed as if all knew the splendor couldn't last and were in a hurry to savor life as they knew it.

Quentin was not one of the golden participants. He'd come to Oxford to research rare, medieval treatises on witchcraft. It had been eighteen years since he last left Collinwood. He'd spent most of those years seeking a cure for the curse which afflicted him. The werewolf curse which his daughter's descendants would same day inherit. He caught a glimpse of himself in the pub mirror. His face was frozen in time. Eighteen years of endless searching and loneliness showed no impact. His wide, sky-blue eyes were as fresh and as clear as those of the young scoundrel long ago. His boyish features caught the attention of every woman in the room.

His heart still ached for Amanda. To have left her waiting like that....... He often thought of where she was now. He hoped her heart was not still as broken as his was tonight. He had kept an internal vow to himself to not love again. Not ever until and if, he could end the curse and his immortality. His evening carousing still helped to ease his restless soul, but he never allowed the careless stream of female acquaintances to grow close.

As he drank heavily, his mind turned to the war. Deep in his own personal quest, he had felt orphaned from the world and paid little attention to its sudden upheaval. Tonight he noticed the brave, worried faces. A new year was almost here, and who knew what it held? His loneliness tonight felt overwhelming, and here with a crowd united by a cause, he felt a sudden kinship. He thought of the death and destruction of the Western Front. Could it be possible for it to overwhelm even himself? Could all that modern machinery of death end his immortality? He closed his eyes a moment and felt a deep sense of calm. Could he be killed? Could he end it all and know peace at last?

He drank on until after several pints more and a romp with a girl in a shoddy flat, he found himself stumbling down cobbled streets on a rainy New Year's day. A sign in a window boldly proclaimed: "YOUR KING AND COUNTRY NEED YOU!" Quentin gave a soft chuckle. I've got no King and I'm far from my country," he mused. He thought again of the brave, worried faces in the pub. He thought of his dream of death and endless sleep. "Why not? Why not join the cause? I could do some good perhaps and even get killed in the process, if I'm lucky."

Quentin's enlistment proceeded like an endless dream of unreal quality. The basic training all soldiers endured was an anathema to his defiant nature. He followed orders as best he could, but held himself aloof with a bemused air while enduring the displeased drill sergeants. Company parades and punishments filled his days and nights with mind-numbing activities. He began to find solace in his fellow soldiers. They had begun as strangers but all soon felt the intense bonding that often happens among men in war time. Frank Tolliver was a London slum boy of nineteen. Trevor Hastings, a Cambridge man and a top cricketeer, had waited for a suitable commission then enlisted in a sudden passion to know the common man's experiences. Terry Quinn was an Irishman from Dublin, fleeing his IRA entanglements. He'd enlisted in a British regiment as the best way he knew to disappear. Quentin had grown especially close to Colin Seagraves. Like himself, Colin was the family black sheep. Though Colin was never specific about his fall from grace, he shared his pain and guilt with Quentin, and they both felt a rare bond of understanding. Whatever the scandal, it had sent Colin down from Oxford without a degree and totally cut off from family support. He'd spent the last few years in a semi-penniless state of self-indulgence, until the war itself as it did with Quentin, promised a sure release and direction. His lean, hawkish face and great, dark eyes burned with a rekindled purpose.

That July found them in a front-line trench in a battle that would forever wipe away a large number of the British Empire's finest young men. Kitchener's Army, they were called. All volunteers. All who for whatever reason they might have had besides King and Country, had enlisted of their own accord. They now were brought together in a common struggle for survival. The battle of the Somme. July 2, 1916. 60,000 men dead, wounded or missing on the first hot day.

Lieutenant Wilcox was shrilly blowing his whistle; the signal for their platoon to rise. Up and over the entrenchment ladders they ran, into a hailstorm of machine-gun and rifle fire. German artillery, well-hidden during the British attempt to destroy it before the battle, joined the fray and punctuated the landscape with fiery blasts and great bellows of smoke. The noise was deafening. Men could not hear and the officers soon shouted themselves hoarse in the first few minutes.

Quentin ran alongside Colin. They kept their eyes focused on the barbed-wire entanglements just ahead of the German lines. British artillery had also targeted the wire, but the men were too aware of how poorly that same artillery had missed its mark with the German guns. And then they were in it.

Lt. Wilcox fell first. Shot through the throat, he brought his hands up to the bloody wound, attempting to croak out another command. He fell face first in the dusty soil and moved no more. Sgt. Thompkins and Terry Quinn were blown up together in a blinding flash from a German .88, their bodies reduced to a spray of bloody flesh. The great wave of men faltered. A few ran at first. Then others. Then came the mass retreat.

Quentin pulled Colin along with him. He no longer consciously focused on wishing to die. Now he felt the need to live and help these men, most who wanted only to live the way he had longed to die. He suddenly loved them all with a surge of protectiveness. He clutched Colin's greatcoat and smiled fiercely at the one he loved the most....Colin... A hot intensity welled up inside him. He would take care of them all. He yelled for Tolliver and Hastings to follow them. He snatched at the wire and stood still among the deadly fire, pushing and pulling the men through.

Tolliver broke out first but a few feet forward he fell, shot in the back. Turning him over Quentin was in time to watch his last few quivering breaths. They ran on. The regiment was dying. Bodies decked the wire like grotesque decorations. The ground was littered with rifle shells, empty canteens, and discarded dressings. Quentin led Colin and Hastings to the dubious shelter of a large shell hole. They laid close to its edge, spent and shocked at the carnage. Across the entire front, the German artillery continued its angry retort. Though in some areas the British charge succeeded in gaining ground, in others the returning scrambled lines of men were in sad contrast to the proud, large wave which had set out.

Hastings began a whispered recital of the Lord's Prayer, "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want..." Quentin and Colin turned toward each other. Neither had ever been faintly religious. They both fell silent, then softly joined in, their solemn voices lost in the cacophony of bullets and shellfire raging about them. The artillery was creeping closer as the gunners set their range. They looked at one another, each hugging the ground as if they could command it to swallow them up and protect them. Hastings suddenly sprang up with an incoherent shout. He ran from the hole fully erect and was quickly shot through the head. He fell heavily, reddish-grey matter dripping from a jagged hole in his helmet.

Colin choked and turned to Quentin; his face chalk-white. His dark eyes were round with shock and terror. "God...Quentin...this is horrible! I don't want to die here! Not like this! We haven't even a chance!"

Quentin grabbed Colin's shoulder and yelled to him. "Colin, we'll make it, I promise you! We'll get through...God protects mad dogs and Englishmen, remember?" Quentin forced a sickly grin.

Colin clutched at Quentin's hands and smiled weakly. "I'm sorry, old man", he gasped. " Isn't it funny, though? I thought I wanted this. Thought I wouldn't mind a medal or even the old dirt nap itself, if that happened. I don't want it now." He turned his face away as hot tears ran down his begrimed cheeks.

Quentin squeezed Colin's hands with an encouraging grip. Colin leaned forward until his wet eyes leveled with Quentin's. A strange, powerful look spread over his face. "This is important, Quentin...don't hate me for telling you this. Please...I love you...do you understand? More than like a friend or even a brother...I love you..." his words trailed off as he turned his face away.

Quentin felt an old, aching warmth rush over him. It happened again, he thought in wonder. It happened again. I told myself it wouldn't, but it has...with Colin. He struggled to gain mastery of his conflicting thoughts. He'd never thought of men in that way. He was the quintessential lady's man. But now, here in some hellish French field, he was gripping Colin's hands and feeling a wild, inner fire.

He took Colin's face between his hands and kissed him hard. The kiss seemed savagely sweet, as if stolen from the face of death itself. Colin clutched at Quentin tightly. He dropped his head to Quentin's shoulder. His helmet tipped off and rolled to the ground. Quentin gently smoothed Colin's sweat-matted hair back from his face, then replaced the helmet and pulled him up to a crouch next to him. " I love you too, Colin." he whispered quietly.

Another crashing shell sprayed dirt over them and Quentin's voice grew harsher as he yelled, "We've got to make a run for it!" Colin shook his head. Quentin yelled again. "I'll help you. Follow me!" Quentin rose and Colin reluctantly followed. Together they clambered over the hole's edge and stumbled across the broken terrain. The cries of wounded men filled their ears as they struggled to regain the safety of their own trenches. They passed a young stretcher-bearer lying wounded on the ground. His shock of blond hair shone brightly in the summer sun. He clutched at Colin's legs, frantically. "Help me, Mate!" he cried. They looked down and saw the boy's left foot was blown off. The two hastily bandaged the stump with their kits, all the while ducking bullets and shellfire. They grabbed the boy between them and took off again.

A loud, quick burst filled Quentin's head. His body felt limp. His vision turned red. He felt his feet fly from under him and he found himself crashing to the ground, stunned and helpless. Something was on top of him. Something heavy and oppressive. It frightened him and he cried out. He struggled a moment then stopped as another barrage crashed around him. He fought to get the weight off his back. Where was Colin? He tried to call for him but his throat was dusty and choked, and he managed only a hoarse, tortured whisper. He grabbed at the weight with all his strength and suddenly found himself staring into Colin's smiling face. There was something wrong. He shook Colin, but there was no response. Colin wasn't smiling. It was more like a frozen grimace, thought Quentin. He closed his eyes and then refocused them. He stared dumbly at an oozing, star-shaped hole right above and between Colin's staring black eyes. He climbed over Colin as if to protect him from the shells. He pressed his ear tightly to Colin's bloody chest. Colin's heart was still and his eyes open and unseeing. He was dead.

Choking back a sob, Quentin stumbled to his feet again. The wounded stretcher-bearer was gone. He was alone. He stood and ran on through the bombardment. Shrapnel and bullets pierced his body as he ran wildly. The pain and impact of each wound knocked him down, but he rose slowly again each time, staggering toward the trenches. Even as he ran the wounds were healing. Only the pain stayed with him. The horrible pain and the ceaseless noise. As he ran he heard someone screaming. He wanted to scream back at the man to stop. He wanted to die but he was immortal. Not like Colin, who was already a broken, bloody remnant of the friend he had known.

He fell into the trenches and grabbed his head tightly, trying to shut out the noise. He shut his eyes hard to cut off the sight of Colin's frozen grimace. The man was still screaming somewhere. Screaming so loudly, it hurt. Somebody stop him, he thought. I can't take it anymore. His hands flew to his open mouth and he realized he was the man. And he had to scream. It was all terribly wrong. All the waste. It wasn't for King and Country but for all the vanity and pride of each offending nation. All those men dead. And Colin...He screamed again in torment and was screaming still when they found him and gently carried him back.

Brycliffe Sanitarium stood on the shore of the river Severn, in Shropshire. Its windows gazed down on farmlands stretching away to the ranges of green Shropshire hills. Sheep grazed near the riverbank, and throngs of blackbirds and sparrows filled the trees. It was November 11, 1918. The Armistice had been signed that morning, at 11:00am. The eleventh hour of the eleventh day, of the eleventh month. Down the halls of Brycliffe the patients and staff gathered. Even the shattered men that filled the back wards found themselves rejoicing in a world at peace.

Quentin stood on the grounds and eyed the whitewashed sign, ruefully. "Brycliffe Sanitarium for the Brain-Injured and Nervous Cases." The British were so blunt, at times. Out of all the patients, he'd been here the longest. He'd spent a hellish year in a British Army hospital and had been discharged as incurable to Brycliffe. When he'd enlisted he had given his particulars as "Grant Davis, American Businessman, No next of kin." Only Colin knew of his real name. The British Army had puzzled over exactly what to do with him. No relatives or friends were there to offer him care, and his symptoms were too pronounced to let him out without arrangements. So they'd sent him to Brycliffe, and here he had spent the last year. He had been given the Military Cross as a token of gratitude. The medal sat in a closed case at the bottom of a drawer. He stood now on the grounds of Brycliffe, suddenly wishing he were home.

It would be most likely raining at Collinwood now, Quentin thought. November was rainy often until the cold deepened and the snows came. The fireplace would be blazing and the great clock in the foyer would somberly and reassuringly count the hours. In his boyhood he had known peace there, and now he longed for it again. What would they all be doing? Edward most likely busily engaged in the family's shipping operations. Judith still running the household. Nora, all grown up, might even be married now. And Jamison? He'd be a man of thirty-one now. A sense of dread came over him. Had Jamison entered the war when America did? Had he been killed? Worse, was his mind or body ravaged by horrible wounds? He missed them all tonight. He thought of his daughter, Lenore. At least she was safe from the war. What was she doing now?

If he went home he could know their fate. If he went home he could rest a little while. He knew he couldn't stay. Already his lack of aging would be noticeable. As the years passed by they would become suspicious. He closed his eyes and wept softly to himself. He'd lost these last years to the war. His quest still stretched ahead of him. But his heart and mind...they were broken by visions that left his nights sleepless and his days in haunting thought. Sounds would fill his ears at any time, sounds that pierced him deeply and left him kneeling and retching on the floor. Sights would flood back into his memory at the slightest reminder of those obscene images engraved on his mind. Images that left him hoarse from screaming. A lilac would bring back Colin's face at a flower stand in a French village. A twisted grimace would erase Colin's smile and Quentin's tears would fall again. A lorry's popping backfire would have him curling into a tight ball, fighting off the image of men's bodies blown to bloody fragments.

Shell-shocked, the doctors told him. He found it ironic. His body was unscathed by all his experiences. But the sounds and sights of the Somme had reached inside of him and ripped away his essence. He felt fragmented. He shunned companionship even as the staff and other patients tried to reach out to him. At times, when he felt stronger, he would read in the library or walk the grounds alone. In his most tormented moments, he would lie curled on the bed with his body wracked by sobs, unable to fight off the flashbacks which engulfed him.

Now he wanted to go home. Just for a little while. Just to see Collinwood again. Just to see the solid, confident walls and great gables rising up beyond Widow's Hill. Just to know that Jamison and Lenore were safe and all was well with the last people on earth with whom he felt even a tenuous connection. He could heal there, he thought. He could gain strength from his home. The strength he needed to some day resume his quest.

He left Brycliffe against medical advice, his discharge pension in a wallet thrust deep inside his shabby trenchcoat. He threw away his old uniform. One of the orderlies gave him an aged sweater and a pair of pants ragged at the hems. He made his way home on a steamer, and found himself at last before the high, polished doors of Collinwood.

Quentin sat in the parlor before an astonished Edward and Judith. He had been gone so long without word, they supposed him dead. He said nothing to explain his shabby appearance. His drooped shoulders and thin, haunted face softened their scorn at his condition. Both assumed a twenty year debauchery of some sort, and only marveled that he still looked so young for forty-eight. He asked quietly of Jamison and Nora. He smiled wanly when told Jamison had served with honor and would soon be coming home. Nora's soldier husband was also safe and already in New York. She had traveled there to meet him.

Edward left to go to bed, leaving Quentin and Judith alone. Judith had been reading while Quentin sat in a chair by the fire. She looked up and saw he was sleeping. His head had fallen to his shoulder and his lips were parted in soft, steady breathing. He looked thoroughly dissolute, she thought, shaking her head. She'd hoped on his return that perhaps he had matured, but his ragged appearance gave her grave doubts. The "Return of the Prodigal", she thought, as she rose to wake him.

As she gently shook his shoulder, he woke with a start to the sudden crack of lightning. The storm which had menaced all day broke loose in frenzy. He froze instantly. Another peal sent him sliding to the floor. He curled up with his arms clutched tightly about his knees. The thunder rolled through him, and the crack reverberated in his ears.

"Quentin, what is it?" Judith cried. He couldn't hear her. The flash and rumbling of the storm engulfed his body in a paroxysm of fear. He began sobbing uncontrollably. He felt a frighteningly familiar, oppressive weight across his shoulders. He shook harder and cried out in terror. Smells of cordite and men's blood filled his nostrils. He jerked against a table and sent a whiskey glass flying. The flying shards ricocheted about the room as he groaned loudly.

"Quentin!" Judith shouted again. She stood mesmerized by his behavior. What had come over him? Was he mad? She called for the servants who quickly fetched Edward. They all stood back from him, as if afraid to touch him and rouse further whatever nightmare engulfed his mind. He stood and staggered from the parlor. Tears blinded his eyes. He tried to climb the stairs to his old room but his trembling body betrayed him and he fell in a heap to the landing. Judith ran to him then, and through the noise and terror in his mind he could hear her yelling at him to lie still. He looked up at her with wide, anguished eyes. "Help me", he cried softly. "Please help me..."

Dr. Graves entered the sitting room outside of Quentin's bedchamber. Judith and Edward stood waiting. "Well, I can't really tell what's happened to him, Miss Collins. Physically he's as healthy as a horse, if a little thin. It's amazing, really. I delivered him as a baby forty-eight years ago and he looks like a boy in his twenties."

"Well then, doctor. Do you think he's insane?", Judith asked bluntly.

"Frankly, Miss Collins, I'm not quite sure. Obviously he's not quite right, if that's what you mean." The old doctor stood a moment as if pondering something. "Tell me something, is it possible he served in the war?"

Edward gave a derisive chuckle. "Come now, Graves. You know my brother. I haven't the foggiest idea of what he's been up to for these last eighteen years but he was never one to place his own life in danger. Why do you ask that?"

Graves looked at Edward and shook his head. "Well, I know its a little far-fetched, but he has all the symptoms of shell-shock." Turning toward Judith he asked, "Didn't you say he was asleep and seemed frightened by the storm when awakened? That sort of `startle' behavior, I've heard, is common with soldiers who experienced heavy shelling."

Judith frowned as she wondered what could possibly be wrong with Quentin. It seemed whenever he returned, he brought trouble. Her anger softened to pity as she again saw him on the landing, crying and softly pleading for her help. The circle had come around again. He had seen her once when she was vulnerable. Now in turn she had seen him in his own weakness.

Graves smiled encouragingly at Edward and Judith. "If it isn't shell-shock, it's remarkably like it, and the treatment would be the same. He needs rest and quiet. He'll probably be withdrawn. When those flashbacks hit, there is little to be done but wait them out. Sometimes sedatives will help. I'll leave you some. You'll want to consider having a trained nurse about. Ideally one used to these cases. I'll make the arrangements, if you like."

Judith nodded her assent and went wearily to bed. The next day brought Rowan Lyle to Collinwood. She was from the village but had left Collinsport behind for the relative sophistication of Bangor, and a post as a teacher at an exclusive girl's school. A minor fascination for medicine led to a full time war occupation as a volunteer nurse. The war's end found her working with the bent and broken casualties of a Flanders hospital. Returning home to Collinsport brought relief to Rowan. Taking the case at t Collinwood allowed her to provide an additional income for her aging parents, who were grieving her brother's loss at Belleau Wood. Relief also at having one as opposed to so many needy patients at once.

Rowan was blessed with self-discipline and a seeking nature. At thirty-four, she yet had known a real romance. There had been pawing, silly boys in the village, and later grateful, gallant veterans, but to none of them did she lose her heart. She lived instead with an inner intensity that caused her to experience life somewhat differently than others. As if there were an abundance of spirit deep down inside that remained untouched and unchallenged. She was efficient, athletic, and very bright. She read poetry and painted in watercolors, and could some days be seen swimming strong, even strokes down off the beach at Widow's Hill. She had bobbed her dark, shining hair long before the crest of popularity rose for such a style. She wore little make-up and needed none. Her rich hazel eyes were shaded by robust lashes and her brisk, well-scrubbed complexion shone with a dazzling vitality.

Judith at first felt alarm when meeting her. This would never do. As sick as Quentin appeared to be, this robust woman might not be the best nurse for him. She had envisioned a middle-aged, less attractive woman. She was pleased though, with Rowan's recommendations and her lengthy experience with cases similar to Quentin's. She was also pleased by the sense of aloofness she picked up from the woman.

Quentin took little notice of Rowan. Her occupation became that of subtly checking on him. She watched his food intake and hovered nearby when his memories overwhelmed him. Then she could be found leading him to bed, speaking softly and soothing, until the flashbacks and administered sedatives left him in an exhausted daze.

It was she who opened his battered valise one day, in a curious attempt to solve the puzzle of his affliction. The contents were sparse but illuminating. A folded certificate from the British Army stamped "Discharged Honourably as Incurable." A battered soldier's identity book identifying one "Private Grant Davis, 3rd Battalion, King's Royal Rifle Corps." A small case which held the Military Cross decoration. Another certificate noting the award for "meritorious valor" given to Pvt. Davis. A small, dog-eared photograph was also inside. It showed a young man in uniform with deep-set dark eyes. A scrawled signature across the bottom was signed, "Always your friend..Love, Colin."

She'd taken her find to Judith, who fingered the bright ribbon of his Military Cross. "For meritorious valor" the certificate read. It all seemed so unreal. What on earth had he been doing in the British Army? What had he seen which had so unhinged him? And to think that he had earned a medal of valor... She approached him one day when he seemed stronger. He sat resting on the summer verandah, dressed in white flannels which accentuated his paleness. He haltingly told her something of the story, leaving out Colin and hinting only at the horrific sights and sounds he'd endured. Judith told him of Lenore's visit. He shut his eyes in pain. He wanted to go to her, but did not want her to see him like this, or to interrupt the life she had fashioned growing up without him. No, better to let her think him dead or long gone, he thought. Better to leave well enough alone.

That spring the world still clung tightly to sorrow despite the war's end. An influenza pandemic continued its deadly sweep across each continent. Edward caught it from one of the servants and died from pneumonia. A saddened Jamison returned for his father's funeral. He hugged Quentin tightly at the graveside, recognizing in his uncle's haunted face a comradeship born in the trenches. Spring turned to summer, and the world lost its sorrow as the sounds of jazz awakened a revitalized generation. The Lost Generation, they were called. Those who lived through the war were filled with a determination to take back with a vengeance, what they had left behind. Jamison felt the restlessness and quit the family firm. He roamed through Europe and settled in Paris, among the American expatriates whose talents would produce the likes of Stein and Hemingway. There he met a student at the Sorbonne who would one day return with him to Collinwood as his wife.

There had not been a summer like this since 1914. Not since then, had the world seemed so golden and vital. Quentin began to open up to Rowan. He found comfort in her almost animal vitality, and solace when in his weak tormented moments, she was there like an anchor of serenity. She also felt closer to him. But she felt something else as well.... a dawning sense of his maleness.

No longer was he only her tortured patient. He had been hurt deeply, but he was a man nonetheless and when she watched him sometimes, her heart quickened at his pensive looks. He was better, she thought. Well enough now to be thinking of life and not death. She came to him first in a quick, summer rainfall. He took her there in the garden gazebo, with her damp, dark hair curling behind her ears and her lips pressed hungrily to his.

Quentin's nightmares receded to dreams as he grew stronger inside. He told Rowan of Colin and even as his words spoke of their anguished love, he saw her smiling acceptance and felt his heart heal a little. In turn he had awakened a hunger in her. A need which had gone so long without notice in Rowan. Her strength fed his and in return his haunting passion illuminated hers. But their many nights pressed together, only served to remind him theirs could not be a permanent love. The Collinsport Gazette had noted the marriage of Lenore Fillmore to a young fishing boat skipper, recently home from the Navy. There would be children soon, he thought. His grandchildren. The quest to end the curse must begin again, soon.

Between Judith and himself there developed a new understanding. They were gentler with each other. He would find himself purposefully seeking her some evenings. They often read in the other's company. Some nights they would talk, and their conversation would linger softly over past memories at Collinwood.

When he thought of Colin, it was less painful. He understood now, the scandal which must have led to Colin being cut off from his rigid family. He felt anger when he thought of noble, enduring Colin who had striven so for a purpose in life, being rejected by his family for being homosexual. It must have happened at Oxford, he reflected. That's why he was sent down. He wondered now what happened to the boy whom Colin must have loved to have risked all for. Was that boy also lying dead in France now? He thought of his own love for Colin and a bittersweet warmth swept over him. He had loved many women and now one man. They were all gone now. Once again he faced the world alone. It would be tempting to stay with Rowan but he would not remain to torment her in later years, while she aged without his company.

He left that Fall with a last, lingering kiss from Rowan. Her hazel eyes were soft and sad, but she smiled as his old charm returned. He rakishly swept his cap from his head and leaned to kiss her once more with a flourish. With a spry leap he boarded the train and watched as Rowan's graceful figure diminished in the crowd. He continued to watch as Collinsport itself faded in the distance, and far away the crest of Widow's Hill grew smaller. He sat in his seat and carefully removed the photo of Colin. Smiling sadly down at the familiar large, dark eyes which looked up at him, he gently whispered Colin's name. His thoughts turned to other loves of his also lying dead. Jenny... Beth..... both sleeping now at Collinwood. His mind turned to the lines written by A. E. Housman...

With rue my heart is laden
For golden friends I had,
For many a rose-lipt maiden
And many a lightfoot lad.

By brooks too broad for leaping
The lightfoot boys are laid:
The rose-lipt girls are sleeping
In fields where roses fade.


There were all sleeping, tonight. Some day, when Lenore and her children were safe, he would join them all in peace.
That night as he slept once again while miles from home, Lenore sat softly crying. Her tears quieted and a small smile crossed her face. In her hands she held a note which read simply, "I came home to see you safe. I left again to keep you so. Always know I love you. Your father."

Finis

Note: Writ on Water III Darkened Lands is coming soon...


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