"how lucky i am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard."
- a. a. milne

YES, AND YES and yes again—that was all I remembered. The euphoric feeling of pure bliss flowing through me, my lips upon his own, making empty promises, becoming indulged in the simplicity of a normal life: it was all fresh in my mind, and yet so distant. It were as if it sat at the top of my fingers, indenting itself against the keen edge of my nail, only to leap out of my grasp and be swept away by the wind. Autumn had tumbled in. Summer was nothing but a distant memory.

Before us all stood the soldiers, their black boots littered with fallen leaves of a withering green. Browns, yellows and oranges invaded the lush colour of summer, bringing along a chilly breeze: it bit at the skin upon my being, flapping the beige skirt I wore and ruffling the loose bonnet upon my head. Khaki coloured uniforms glinted in the timid sun, which hid behind heavy clouds of asphalt and some dull blue. Rain was soon to pour, and the mud to soften; the ground to sink and no longer be level—and when that happened?

The bodies of the fallen would fill it back up.

The thought brought a nauseous feeling about me, my eyes catching the gaze of Jake. The passing glimpse of sadness upon his face the night before had made sense now, for guilt seemed to etch the very edges of his stance. He stood broad amongst the others, who all looked meek and small in comparison: like sheltered children, scuffling about with boredom. Such a height was intimidating, meant to evoke fear upon those who opposed them. I knew of their strategies. It were as if Jake was an explosive device: something unpredictable, made to tear down those who opposed what he followed.

"Today, we leave!" Major Arthur James exclaimed proudly, his face—although the young age he held—filled with the weariness of an old man. Gleeful shouts erupted throughout the air from the bystanders, Mollie included. I, however, would not cheer on. Not when I looked into Jake's eyes and saw fear.

If he, the last resort, was scared, then what hope did they have at coming back alive? My mind racked on, sneering at all those who smiled.

"We have here with us the weapon!" Another shout of happiness. "The monster!" A jeer from my left, something filled with both pride and disgust. "The devil incarnate!" A cry from an old women, followed by some howling laughter. "The man without a heart!" Shouts and clapping filled the air once more, Jake's burly figure taking up the podium. It were as if he was on trail for a crime he had not yet committed: it were as if he was going to die for these people's pride.

"We shall depart today, whilst the sun still sits in the sky. And with that we must leave abruptly: we plan to beat the enemy to the floor with no mercy!" More cries of happiness, of some sickening joy. Bile tickled my throat. Were these people really made of the same blood and flesh that I had been? "With that, say your goodbyes. The journey shall be long, and not easily fought."

And although more cheers erupted, and tears of happiness were spilled upon the rubbled streets, no-one missed the underlying warning. Arthur's voice was firm, but there was a slight hesitancy within it: some hidden dread, which was shown through the glint in his eye. The journey shall be long, and not easily fought. Someone was going to die—many were going to die. The final round. The final hurdle. Who knew if this was going to be their last goodbye?

Crowds surged forward as Arthur stepped down from the podium, engulfing Mollie in a wide hug. His head, buried in the crook of her neck, and hers resting upon his shoulder: eyes shut, as though it were their last embrace. Red flushed cheeks and wobbling lips: tears were, undoubtedly, going to be shed. I did not blame them, though. As much as it sickened me, they were in love, and to part would cause relentless pain, no doubt.

The soldiers trickling past seemed but a blur to me: some stark ginger of fine hair, the clouded eyes of a nerve-struck soldier, the gentle pat of a farewell from George. All seemed insignificant when my eyes landed upon Jake, whose body was stiff and poised upon the crowd of short men. Discomfort radiated from his wide being, as though he was unsure of what to do in such a place. And then I realised that he feared ridicule, and thought to be still to be avoided, as though he was to become a tree or a flimsy leaf. I surged on foreword, catching his hazel eye once more.

I would not let him leave without saying goodbye.

"Amandine," he breathed, eye hesitant with worry. It were as if he had something to say—something heartfelt, something that shook him to the core to admit—but my voice cut him off.

"You failed to let me know of this." Although it was with a stubborn mind that I had arrived to him with, my voice was that of a whisper: a willow wisp caught in a hurricane, helpless against the churning wind. "You knew, and yet you did not tell me. Why?"

"I was going to, I promise you that," he began, his hazel eye—which, in the light of the shy sun, seemed to be shrouded in fear—focused on my face, tracing the lining of my lips: of my ear and eyes and nimble hands. "I was going to tell you everything: stories I knew, tales I'd been told, times where I was a child, free from judgmental stares. I was going to tell you of the time before I was a monster, but ... well, I guess I just wanted to enjoy the night with you. I did not want to dwell on the past—or the inevitable future. I am sorry, my Amandine. I did not mean to make you upset."

And just like that, the surge of bitterness fell from me. "You haven't made me upset. Just ... worried." I let loose a hidden breath. He did not seem convinced. "You can still tell me the stories, if you'd like." I offered, my hands brushing his own. Rough callouses and thick skin: the hands of a warrior, of a proclaimed weapon—yet when I looked at him in all his glory, I saw only an angel drapped in the cloak of a devil. Ethereal he was, even in the autumn wind, which blew through his buzzed hair. On my toes I stood, daring to let my finger brush against the keen edge of it: like sharp blades, and in the sun an unrivalled ginger. "For you, I have all the time in the world."

He smiled, and some hollow part of my heart filled.

"You should not stand so close to me, I do not want you to be ridiculed." Eyes scanning the crowd, he brought my hand down and stepped back, caution seizing his being.

I scoffed. "As if I care about them and their words. They know nothing—they are ignorant, and lack knowledge. They fear what they do not understand." My fingers trailed his own, drawing upon the bulging veins of his hand and around the start of his uniform: a camouflaged khaki, like bark and grass. "I do not fear you, Jake Warrens."

"And for that, I am eternally grateful." A kiss on my forehead did he place, lips of the colour rose faintly brushing my skin, which shimmered like the night sky and the stars. Soft they were, yet caked in the dryness, as though he would not dare to moisten his lips if it did not mean my own touching his. "I am eternally grateful for you. I do wonder how you came into my life sometimes, I really do."

"You do not have forever to wonder. Enjoy me in the moment, whilst we are still here." Staring into his eyes, I caught the flash of misconception: "No! Not like that, you oaf!" I slapped his arm, although I doubt he'd felt it. It was brisk and light, like his eye in the sun, or the laugh that tumbled from his lips and onto my own. I smiled contently, watching the lines of bliss extend from his eye.

"I know, I know!" He surrendered, shoulders shaking with hidden laughter. "I just like to tease you, my Amandine, that is all."

"Hm." I hummed, my head upon his chest. Fingers racked through my coiled locks, tangling themselves in the nots that graced my head. It were as though he was a curious child: his gentle mannerisms, his sparking intrigue. And to some extent he was, for even in adulthood he had not mastered the art of things that a child would learn with ease.

"Amandine," he breathed my name, his eye cast upon my own. "My heart, my life, my Amandine—what will I do without you?" A sad smile fell upon his face, eyes distant in a haze of thoughts and wonder.

He thought too much.

"Don't think about it." Tears prodded at my eyes at the thought: a life without Jake Warrens—what would it be like? Without his smile, his laughter, his childlike mannerisms and long legs? Without his burly frame, gentle fingers, curious gaze and his heart, which was more valuable than everyone before us and more? Dull and desolate, no doubt. A life without Jake Warrens was a life not worth living. It would have order—structure, confined boundaries and bleakness.

With him, I had found freedom.

I would not let it go so soon.

"Oh, but I will." He said, his voice soft as a whisper. "I will think about you, Amandine, and how you brought light into my life. I will think about your smile, although infrequent, and how it is so ethereal—so beautiful." His fingers trailed to my hair once more, fiddling with the curls. "I will think about your stubbornness and your lips, your eyes, your heart and how pure it is—your lack of judgment and ridicule. I will think about all that is you, because without you I have nothing. You are my heart, the only thing I want—you know this, do you not?"

And I did, I knew it too well. It were as if it were a friend, someone I had long acquainted—someone I valued immensely.

I feared my fingers leaving his body.

I feared the day I would no longer feel his warmth.

I feared the day the cold would return, and never leave.

I feared the day Jake Warrens would no longer be here: alive, and breathing.

"Oh, now you're thinking about it, aren't you?" Thick fingers wiped the tears I had not known I shed, his breath scanning my face. We were so close, barely an inch apart—our lips taunting each other, teasing one another to close the gap. The thought that one day I would no longer feel the softness of them stabbed at my mind. Another tear slipped. "You think too much, you know?" A joke, an attempt to lighten the dulled mood.

"I do not know what I will do if you leave." I admitted, my eyes focused upon anything but him. The quivering tree, the lone worm upon man-made ground; the speck of rain that fell upon his shoulder, sliding down onto soil. Anything but him. "I did not enjoy my life before you. How will I go back to it now?"

"You won't." He spoke with such firmness, such certainty, that my eyes were drawn to his own. "You will continue to be your lovely self, and you will continue to be a beacon of hope in this shallow, ignorant world. You will teach others how to live without hatred, and you will tell them our tale."

I frowned: "You say it as though you won't be there to tell it with me."

Silence fell upon us. Eyes bore into one another's. Rain fell cautiously, as though scared to interrupt us. Birds flapped past—no chirping or summer songs came from them. Autumn was thick in the air, the leaves scraping the ground wearily. Life was slowly turning bleak, turning into what it had once been.

Chaos started it, so chaos shall end it.

"I must go." He stated, ripping his gaze from my own and onto Arthur. The Major stood amongst the crowd—his eyes upon a broken Mollie. "I should not be late to depart." He sighed, and then looked at my lips. "May I?"

I could only nod. Some sweet thing of lushness fell upon me, hands gentle in their grip. His hair brushing the tips of my fingers, tongue darting and daring to taste more of me, as though it was the last time he would ever kiss me. I could feel the wetness of his tears: they were soft, salty in the droplet that fell upon my tongue—or maybe it was the rain, which sauntered down with more force than before.

It was time for them to leave: time for the bodies to level the ground once more.

"Go," I spoke, my voice barely a whisper. "Go, and they will see what they lost."

He stepped away, his body trembling, mouth still puckered from our kiss. Even as the rain lashed at his body, he was bewitching: his furrowed brow, his scarred eye, his straight nose and prominent jaw. He was heavenly.

I did not doubt that he was an angel.

"Jake Warrens," I breathed, my throat tight and sore. Tears dropped down my skin, moistening the dryness that the summer had brought about it. My eyes met his once more: the hazel gleaming, the hazed simmering in thought. Looking back on it now, if I had thought about what I next said for a second longer, I would have never said it at all:

"I love you."

His breath hitched—the air caught in his throat. He parted his mouth as though to respond, but he never managed. The Major had called for him. A last glance, and then he retreated.

I never found out what he was going to say.

I never got the chance.