𝑯𝒊𝒆𝒓 𝑬𝒏𝒄𝒐𝒓𝒆

Charles Aznavour

1:20 ────♡─── 2:25

"𝙷𝚒𝚎𝚛 𝙴𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚎, 𝙹'𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚜"

The room was warm, dimly lit by the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Maeve Harding-now twenty four-lay curled against Arthur Shelby, her auburn hair splayed across the pillow. They were a tangle of limbs beneath the sheets, their bare skin still damp with the heat of the moment. Arthur's hand trailed lazily along her back, his breathing steady and deep. For once, there was peace between them, laughter filling the space that was so often charged with tension.

Maeve smirked as Arthur recounted a story from the pub earlier that week, one involving John Shelby's failed attempt at flirting with a barmaid who turned out to be married.

"He couldn't figure out why she kept lookin' over his shoulder," Arthur said, his grin lopsided. "Then her husband walks in, big bloke with arms like tree trunks."

Maeve laughed, her head resting on Arthur's chest as the sound rumbled through him. "I hope John didn't get himself killed."

"Nah," Arthur replied, chuckling. "Tommy stepped in, smoothed it over like he always does. John owes him, though."

Maeve tilted her head, her green eyes sparkling with amusement. "Poor John. One day, he'll learn."

Arthur laughed again, a sound that made her chest tighten in ways she didn't want to admit. These moments, these fleeting instances of lightness-they made it hard to remember all the times they'd torn each other apart.

Her gaze wandered across the room, landing on the cluttered bedside table. Amid the ashtray, matches, and stray coins, a folded piece of paper caught her eye. It was crisp and official-looking, stark against the disarray. Her brow furrowed.

"What's that?" she asked, sitting up slightly.

Arthur's hand stilled on her back. "Leave it, Maeve," he said.

But Maeve was already reaching for it, curiosity mingling in her chest. She unfolded the paper, her eyes scanning the words. Her breath caught.

"'To Arthur Shelby, you are hereby instructed to report for recruitment into His Majesty's Armed Forces,'" she read aloud. Her voice trembled as she turned to him, the weight of the letter sinking in. "Hum... how long have you had this for?"

He didn't answer right away. His jaw tightened, his eyes avoiding hers as he sat up and rubbed the back of his neck. "A few weeks."

"A few weeks?" Maeve repeated, her voice rising with anger. "And you didn't think to tell me? Arthur, you're going to war, and you kept this from me?"

"What was I supposed to say?" Arthur snapped, his own frustration bubbling to the surface. "That I'm leavin'? That you're gonna have to sit here and fucking wait, not knowing if either of us'll come back?"

Maeve stared at him, her chest tightening with a mix of anger and betrayal. "And you didn't think I deserved to know? You just let me lie here, laugh with you, like everything's fine?"

"I didn't want to ruin it," Arthur muttered, his voice low but defensive. "What good would it've done, Maeve? You'd just worry."

Maeve grabbed a pillow and hurled it at him, her hands shaking. "You're a fucking coward, You never let me in-not when it matters."

Arthur caught the pillow. "Don't start, alright."

"You didn't even give me a chance." she said, trying to remain composed. "You're leaving me here-with a sick father, with Rosie to take care of-and you didn't even have the fucking decency to tell me."

Arthur reached for her, his voice softening. "Maeve-"

"Don't," she snapped, pulling away. She grabbed her clothes, dressing quickly as anger and heartbreak warred inside her. "You don't get to make this better with words, Arthur. Not this time."

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Maeve Harding walked hand in hand with Rosie, the younger girl's chatter filling the silence as they made their way home from school. Rosie's satchel bounced against her side, her cheeks pink from the cold wind, her voice bright and full of optimism.

"Miss Waters says we'll have a play next month," Rosie said, tilting her head up at Maeve. "Do you think I could be the lead?"

Maeve forced a smile, though her mind felt far away. "Of course you can, love. You've got the best voice in the class."

Rosie's grin widened, but Maeve's heart ached at the sight. It was too easy to imagine that smile fading, replaced by the weight of everything Maeve had spent years trying to shield her from. Rosie didn't know about the letter Arthur had received, about the fights that had followed, or anything else for that matter.

When they turned the corner onto their street, Maeve saw Jamie waiting outside their small house. His shoulders were slumped, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. Something about the way he stood made her stomach twist.

"What's Jamie doing out here?" Rosie asked.

Maeve didn't answer. She squeezed Rosie's hand gently as they approached, her eyes locked on her brother's face. Jamie glanced up, his jaw tight, his dark eyes shadowed by something she couldn't quite name but recognized nonetheless.

Inside the house, the atmosphere was stifling. Jamie had called everyone together-Ewan sat in his usual chair by the cold hearth, his face pale and drawn. Rosie perched on the edge of the worn sofa, her satchel still clutched tightly in her hands. Maeve leaned against the wall, her arms crossed over her chest as if bracing herself.

Jamie stood in the center of the room, his hands fidgeting with the frayed edge of his coat. He looked at each of them in turn, his gaze lingering on Maeve as if searching for the right words.

"I've been called up," he said finally, his voice low but steady.

The words hung in the air like a punch to the gut. Rosie froze, her eyes wide and brimming with tears. Ewan let out a low, hollow sigh, his head falling into his hands. Maeve's heart felt like it had stopped, her throat tightening as she stared at her brother.

"When?" Maeve asked, her voice quiet but strained.

"Two weeks," Jamie said, his eyes meeting hers. "I didn't want to wait to tell you."

Rosie stood suddenly, the satchel dropping from her hands as she rushed to Jamie. "You can't go," she said, her voice trembling. "You can't leave us."

Jamie knelt to her level, his hands resting on her shoulders. "Rosie," he said gently, though his voice cracked. "I have to."

Rosie shook her head furiously, tears streaming down her cheeks. "No, you don't! You don't have to go! You can say no! You can hide!"

"It doesn't work like that," Jamie said, pulling her into a hug as she sobbed against his chest. "I wish it did, love. I really do."

Maeve watched the scene unfold, her body rigid, her mind spinning. She felt it all crashing down-Arthur leaving, Jamie leaving, her father's worsening health, Rosie's heartbreak. It was too much. It was all too much.

Ewan stood slowly, his movements stiff and unsteady. He cleared his throat, though the sound was weak. "You'll write," he said gruffly, his voice barely audible. "You'll let us know you're alive."

Jamie nodded, as he helped Rosie back onto the sofa. "Of course I will."

Ewan's gaze shifted to Maeve then, his tired eyes heavy. Maeve swallowed hard, her arms tightening around herself. She didn't want to cry-not in front of Rosie, not in front of Jamie, not in front of their father. But she felt the cracks forming, the grief clawing at her chest.

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The train station was a storm of noise and movement. The platform buzzed with activity, filled with soldiers in crisp uniforms, their boots echoing against the stone. Families huddled together in tight circles, speaking in hushed tones or choking back sobs. The scent of coal and damp air mingled with the quiet hum of engines, and somewhere in the background, a whistle blew, sharp and piercing.

Maeve stood stiffly beside her father, her hand resting protectively on Rosie's shoulder. Rosie clung to her side, her wide, tear-streaked eyes darting around the crowded platform. Ada Shelby was crouched next to her, whispering something that made Rosie nod weakly. The two had bonded quickly in the way that children often found solace in someone close to their age but old enough to offer comfort.

Maeve swallowed hard, her eyes scanning the platform until they landed on Jamie. He was standing with John and Arthur, their tall frames silhouetted against the rising steam from the train. Jamie was speaking to Polly, who held his face between her hands, her stern expression softened with worry. Tommy stood nearby, quiet as ever, his sharp eyes flicking between the men and the families gathered around them.

It was the first time Maeve had seen Arthur since their fight. Her chest tightened at the sight of him-broad-shouldered and restless, his hands tucked into his coat pockets. He looked everywhere but at her, his jaw tight, his blue eyes shadowed. She knew that look, the one he wore when he was holding himself together with sheer force of will.

The Hardings and Shelbys eventually gathered in a loose circle near the edge of the platform. Polly stood beside Tommy, her arm looped through his, while Ada hovered near Rosie, her voice gentle and soothing. Jamie hugged Rosie tightly, whispering something that made her nod solemnly before wiping her tears on her sleeve.

Ewan Harding stayed on the fringes, leaning heavily on his cane, his face ashen and drawn. Maeve glanced at him, her stomach twisting at the sight of how frail he'd become. But he was here, and for that, she was grateful.

Arthur stood a few feet away, his gaze fixed on the ground. Maeve hesitated before stepping closer. When she reached him, he finally looked up, his blue eyes meeting hers.

Neither spoke at first. The noise around them faded, the world narrowing to just the two of them. Arthur's lips parted as if to say something, but he stopped, his shoulders rising and falling with a deep breath.

"You look like hell," Maeve said softly, a faint smile tugging at her lips despite the lump in her throat.

Arthur snorted, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "You don't look much better."

The attempt at humor fell flat, but Maeve appreciated it all the same. Her arms crossed over her chest, more for comfort than anything else. "We really know how to pick our moments, don't we?"

Arthur's smile faded, and he stepped closer, his voice quieter now. "Love... I didn't mean for it to go like this."

"I know," she said, her voice barely audible. Her green eyes glistened with unshed tears, but she refused to let them fall. "I just... I wish things were different."

Arthur nodded, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. "Me too."

For a moment, they simply stood there, the space between them crackling with all the things they couldn't say. Then, without thinking, Maeve reached out and took his hand. His fingers curled around hers, warm and calloused, and the gesture sent a shiver through her.

"I'll come back," Arthur said, his voice low but firm. "I promise you. I'll come back."

She shook her head, a weak laugh escaping her lips. "You can't promise that, Arthur."

"I can fucking try," he said, his tone fierce despite the crack in his voice.

Maeve bit her lip, a tear slipping down her cheek as she looked up at him. "You'd better."

Arthur reached out with his free hand, brushing the tear away with a tenderness that made her chest ache. They stood like that for what felt like an eternity, their foreheads almost touching, their breaths mingling in the cold air.

"I'll write," she whispered.

"You'd better," Arthur replied, a small, watery grin breaking through the sadness in his eyes.

They both laughed then, soft and strained, the sound breaking like glass between them. And when the train whistle blew, Arthur pulled her into a fierce hug, his arms wrapping around her as if he could hold her and the moment forever.

As the train pulled away, Maeve stood on the platform with Rosie at her side, her father's hand resting lightly on her shoulder. She watched until the train disappeared into the horizon, taking Arthur and Jamie with it.

Her throat burned, and her chest felt hollow, but she didn't cry. Not yet. Instead, she held Rosie close, whispering words of comfort she barely believed.