"sometimes all you can do is smile. Move on with your day, hold back the tears and pretend you're okay."
- unknown

I SHOULD HAVE known prior to Arthur James' arrival. I should have guessed it, sensed it in the air—which was thick with sadness, with musk and mud, with death and woe. I should have looked at the sky, sensed its somber tone, recalled the rain drops that cascaded down my dressing. The beige had stained an off-grey, sewn to my skin with dampness, weighing down my frame. Coiled locks tangled themselves around my head: I had not bothered to pin them back. My hands were too tired, eyes heavy, lips weary, breath hitching. It seemed as though no air could fill my lungs to its full capacity. I stood there, short of breath, drowning in the rain, running on endless patience.

All for it to go to waste.

I remember the feeling in my face: the slackness, the drooping eyes, dropping of my smile, lowering of my brow. I remember the feeling of numbness: some foreign emptiness, seizing my body into a paralysed state. Tears and rain mixed together upon my skin, filling the cracks upon my lips, warming the cold of my being—falling sombrely onto my clothing. I did not feel my knees buckle, did not recall my falling, my shaking hands, my screaming, my wailing—

I did not remember a second of it.

A rush. Hairs red and blonde, brunette and ginger—all blackened by the sky—came in front of my eyes. There was a touch: soft skin upon my arms, rough tissue ploughed against my skin, dabbing away the rain, breath against my own, hands racking through my hair. Thunder crackled. The rain fell heavier. The sky was a sheet of  black, yet there were no stars out to greet me that night; no flecks of light, no crystals of hope. For what hope had I got now—wailing in agony, screaming, paralysed in my state of shock? Were they to say this was a cruel game: to analyse my reaction, to see how much this maid cared for some unwanted soldier? No, there was no hope. The damage had been done. It was written across Arthur's face.

Mud smeared against his ivory skin, those youthful freckles aged by his weariness. Eyebrows furrowed at my body, he stood in the rain—fists clenched, eyes wide with trauma. His breath hitched, caught in his throat as though it was scared to leave his body. I did not blame it—he, himself, was probably frightened, terrified. The lone soldier, walking back without his platoon: treading through fields of emptiness, of isolation. Paranoia must have seized his body at some point, PTSD plaguing his mind—laughing and screaming, replaying the memories that he'd wished to forget. Hair fell across his face, sweeping past his eyes. They were glassy: lost in a haze, stuck in the war.

I looked away.

How? How had he come home, but not Jake? Not the man they trained to be a weapon, not the man they thought to be their saviour: their knight in armour, their best offence, their most fearsome tool. How did he die, but not Arthur?

Blonde hair whizzed past me, soft air brushing my tears away. I saw her there, standing, rubbing the back of Arthur, littering kisses upon his cheek. Miss Mollie, my friend, my acquaintance: skimming past my fallen form and to the arms of her husband, as though I was a mere mirage of the past. I did not blame her, however, although enmity seized my being. If Jake were here, I would have done the same.

Jake. His name burned upon my tongue, cradling my broken frame, stroking the tangles upon my hair. Jake, Jake, Jake. He was gone—for good. I would never see his face again, never touch the stubble upon his jaw, caress his arms, kiss his temple, run my fingers through his hair—feel those lips upon my own. I would never feel his warmth again—his love, his smile, his hands upon my waist, his burly arms and lumbering legs. I would never teach him those words we'd promised, never be able to tell him how much I truly loved him. Words weren't enough—not even actions were enough. The love I felt for him ran deep: piercing my heart, twisting my gut, choking my throat. I gasped for air, the sobbing suffocating me.

I needed him, I needed him, I needed him—

—but he was not here. He was gone: buried beneath the ground, his body left somewhere on a field: discarded, forgotten, left for the crows and magpies. They'd left him—they'd left my heart on that field. Left and forgotten and abandoned it, as though it never mattered. As though Jake was never the man they all hoped to win the war for them.

I looked at Mollie once more. She was walking with Arthur, a soothing hand upon his back. He was trembling, shaking, as though he was on the field once more, as though he was watching his friends fall and his foes thrive. He staggered then—fell, hands moving at a rapid pace, his body racking, sobs amidst the air. Hyperventilating he was, eyes wide with horror, mouth trembling, nose flared; they all slowly moved from me to him. One by one, each by pressing a hand to my forehead, checking my pulse, staring into my eyes as though that was analysis enough. As though if my heart was beating and I was awake, that was enough. Enough to keep on moving. Enough to not need their help.

Bitterness resided within me as I watched the last of them walk over to Arthur, but I bit my tongue. He needed them: their help, their comfort. He'd known them through the good and bad, through heartache and triumph. He was the people's commander. He'd walked into war for them, and they'd help him stumble back home. Mollie stood with them, looking at the sky. It was black above our heads, blacker than it had been before. There was no trace of clouds now, yet the rain was still thick in its tears. She peered at the grass, staring at her feet, before walking in. Her eyes—those blue, thriving eyes—were focused only on Arthur's back.

She did not spare me a glance.

—

I did not remember walking to my room. I didn't recall placing myself within the bed, stripping my dressing into only my nightgown or combing through my tangled coils. Nor did I remember the sun rising and the night fading, or my face being dry, no longer drenched in tears. I did not remember it—didn't anything at all.

Apart from the numbness.

I remembered that.

It was unbearable. It slumbered within my heart, it's pounding faint and mellow. It seized my legs and arms, strummed the vertebrae upon my back, sang into my ears and cuddled my body in comfort. But it provided no comfort. It only reminded me of the absence of warmth that I felt now that autumn had seized the sky, and that Jake was gone.

And he wasn't coming back.

"Oh, you're awake!" A familiar voice said from the side, soft and frail as though tired from crying. I knew the voice well, had wanted it when I was on the floor only hours before—wailing, and broken. Mollie. I turned to meet her gaze, those magnificent eyes of blue electric in their stare. They were sad, as was the smile on her face. "I brought you a cup of tea, although I'm afraid it may be a bit warm, now."

She pointed toward the mug that sat beside her on the table, its wood rotting and falling, blackening by the day. Smoke rose from the cup, its contents hot and comforting. Nodding my head in thanks, I picked it up and saw what laid beneath it.

Jake's words.

His three, beautiful words.

Stained with overridden tea, the corners beige and crumpled—luckily, however, they had not touch the ink he'd written in. I placed the mug within Mollie's hands, fingering the paper with delicacy. His words—his words. The only thing that was solid, save for the tissue he'd written upon. It sat, crumpled, within the draw: safe and secure, away from eyes that would shun such an action. I clutched it in my grasp, gasping with unrelenting sadness. Nothing compared: my mother's hatred, my lack of companions, the war—nothing compared to the loss of Jake. The loss of him, the loss of hope, the loss of all that was good in the world.

For if he is gone, then what matters?

"Sorry, Mandy, I didn't realise I'd placed it on the. . ." She trailed off, a lanky finger pointing to the paper that I clutched. Sympathy sat within her eyes, which were directed upon my face. "I'm sorry, Amandine." A hand enveloped my own, its warmth nowhere near as satisfactory to that of Jake's. But it was close enough. It was nice.

"There is nothing to be sorry for." My words shook upon my tongue, burning my throat as I forced them out. I sighed heavily, looking into her eyes. She was sorry—genuinely sorry, for everything: for the words she said, the actions she'd committed, her judgmental nature, her rudeness and unease about Jake. "It was not your fault."

"Hmm," she mused, letting silence engulf us. She was grieving—of course she was. Everyone was grieving: their dead sons upon a forgotten plain, their hearts splayed upon fields far off. The place smelled of it, slumbered between the walls and within the cracks between the floorboards. We wouldn't escape it for a long time. Possibly forever.

"Can I see his room?"

Her head snapped up instantly, eyes wide with ridicule. She was about to say something—her mouth opening, eyebrows furrowed, body tense—but then she closed it. She saw it in my eyes: the sadness, the anger, the lack of effort. There was a numbness that overwhelmed all other emotions. A numbness that would not be easily cured.

She took my hand and led to me his room.

And it was exactly the same.

Windows open, curtains flapping easily within the autumn breeze. His scent upon the sheets, bathed and imprinted within the walls and furniture. It mingled with his clothes, all neatly stacked away within the draws. An old coffee sat on his desk, untouched—probably from the day he left.

I think I cried. I think I cried and laughed with some twisted joy, and flung myself upon his bed. I think I cried into his sheets, inhaling his scent, praying it never would leave. I think I sat upon the balcony, letting the cold air whip me in the face mercilessly. I think I made myself believe that this was temporary, for his sheets smelled the same and his coffee remained where it always was—so he had to be alive. And that was the only answer.

I knew she was watching me with pity. Mollie never knew how to sympathise with me. She always claimed that my ways were different to any other, that I was either guarded or as clear as a child's book. That I did not possess an in between, like others. She did not understand how I grieved, and that was okay. I knew she could sympathise with such an emotion, and that was as far as it could go.

Nothing more, nothing less.

"I'm getting married."

I stopped. I stopped my grieving, my crying, my heartache. It all stopped. Her face was unwavering—it was honest and definite, with a certainty that was unrivalled. She was certain about this. And she chose to tell me now.

"Okay." I nodded, my hair following the actions of my face. Up, down, up, down—slow and rhythmic, soft and quiet. Some bitterness climbed up my throat, but I stopped it there. She deserved happiness. Everyone did here. If she was the only to get it, then so be it. "Okay." I repeated, a small smile dancing upon my face. "I am happy for you, Mollie."

She only laughed. "You think I'm making a poor decision, don't you?"

I shrugged. She knew me well. "Poor? With him, yes." I admitted. "But we need some happiness, now. Everyone does."

"Then be my bridesmaid!" She rushed out, clutching my arms tightly. Her blonde curls bounced upon her shoulders like they always did, eyes wide with excitement. With life. "Walk with me down the aisle, hand in my hand—watch me be happy, and be happy with me, Amandine."

I shook my head. It was too soon. "I do not think I can—"

"But why!" She exclaimed, her face painted with hysteria. Her hands slipped from my shoulders, falling upon the sheets which we sat on. "Why, Amandine? Can you not just be with me for once! Why can't you just stand beside as I am being happy, like I've always done with you?"

But I was only happy with Jake, and even then, you hated him: my happiness, my joy.

I did not say anything. I only looked into her eyes, watching her movements. She did not realise the emotions of others: I knew this, and I knew it well. She was my friend, the only thing I had left. Without her, I had nothing.

"Okay." I breathed, my hair brushing against the corners of my face.

"Really, Amandine?!" She exclaimed, looking me in the eye to see if I was lying. To her, I would not. Although that doesn't mean she would know of the full truth.

"Yes."

She squealed with excitement, life thriving in those eyes of blue. That was all I needed to say to be dragged from my mourning and placed with a fake smile upon my face, stitched into my skin and sewn into my dressing. It was definite: I would be her bridesmaid, and I would support her happiness.

And in the meantime, I would abandon my grief to let her have her joy.