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Aug. 15th, 1916, Somme

The bed on my left is occupied again. I am not quite certain why this comes as a surprise, considering my current whereabouts, and still, I cannot help but be befuddled. It has not yet been a full day since poor Monty's passing, and another unfortunate soul is already occupying the space that hosted him not too long before. Had the bedsheets that wrapped around Monty's body had the chance to mourn? Or is dousing them in soap and bleach enough to clear their metaphorical minds of such thoughts? Or maybe they do not care at all, numb to the heartaches of the men whom they assist, used to the pain they serve so faithfully day and night. 

I will miss Monty; as hapless he was as a conversationalist, he was a nice enough fellow, and our talks (though oftentimes superficial) proved good enough distraction from my maladies. 

My new companion is unconscious, as most of them are upon their arrival. He was brought in during the early hours of the morning, and Night Nurse Anne's chattering woke me up from fitful slumber to witness his entrance. It also had given me the opportunity to eavesdrop, however ashamed I am to admit it. It was a crossfire that got him, the unlucky chap. As unfortunate as I have been, caught by the shrapnel of an ill-timed explosion courtesy of a coeval soldier Simon (may God have mercy on his soul), at least I have not been turned into a human sieve as my new neighbour has. Hopefully, he'll pull through. It would be a great shame to lose another brave heart to this Hell of our own making. 

My leg remains a nuisance, as one might expect after having it nearly blown off a week ago, but Nurse Jenny remains optimistic (or as optimistic as she can get) that I will recover. If the Lord allows it, I will be sent home before All Hallow's Eve. 

Aug. 17th, 1916, Somme

I found his hand reaching for mine last night. He was moaning through his sleep, as I'd learnt he was wont to do, most likely due to the fever that held tight onto his body ever since he arrived. Meanwhile, I was struggling through the darkness as usual, with my mind too occupied by an amalgamation of thoughts that I consistently fail to pour onto paper. And through it all, in the midst of the witching hour, with a near-full moon serving as the only source of light, I saw one of his hands falling off the bed and stretching towards me. I know not what possessed me, but I took hold of it. The crampedness of the hospital, resulting in the beds standing nearly atop each other, allowed me to grasp it quite firmly. 

It was like a spell, his thrashing and pained groans subsiding as I squeezed his sweaty palm. And now I wonder whether the pain he was in was not physical, but more so one of a soul abandoned. 

Whatever the reason is, I will admit I'm glad to have been of some help.

– He is awake. 

Aug. 18th 1916, Somme

My last notion of yesterday was not entirely true. He did wake, however there did not seem to be much consciousness to him at the time. The intense pain coloured any state of awareness he must have been experiencing. His tortured gasps drew the attention of Nurse Finch, who approached swiftly, her extensive collection of needles and other instruments of questionable intent at her side. One stab of whatever concoction she had on hand, and my poor neighbour was back under. I do believe that was for the best, though – there is no pride in pointless suffering.

That being said, by the time I woke up, he was already sitting, eyes wide open and clear, gazing curiously around the hospital despite the early hours of the morning. He spotted my shifting immediately but was polite enough to allow me to sit up and fully come to my senses before he introduced himself. 

His name is Charles; he seems to be around the same age as me by the looks of it, and he hates it here – his exact words, paraphrased.

I responded in kind, and we managed to shake hands over the narrow space between our cots. For a moment I wondered whether my palm in his felt as familiar as his palm in mine after the events of the night prior. 

The conversation moved smoothly after those brief introductions, shockingly so by my standards. We exchanged stories of our deployment first; I disclosed that it was my father who chose this career path for me, and he admitted he volunteered out of his own free will. France is the first destination for both of us, and we seem to have been sent here around the same time at the beginning of 1916, though I first landed my spot up north while he ended up further east. From there, we ran through various tales from our short military histories, commiserating over many aspects of this war and even sharing a laugh or two at the expense of the French. 

Though those interactions were rather usual, and our familiarity was only beginning to grow, Charles revealed himself to be a kind soul through all of them. I must also note that despite our subjects being most common for men in our position (I am quite certain that were I to revert a couple of pages, I would find a similar record of our first talks with Monty), there seemed to be something more to them; there seems to be more to Charles, some innate softness and welcomeness, which somehow makes it easier for me to share my thoughts. 

Final observations: he is a jester up to his eyes, but in them, there is great sadness, not one I would expect from a soldier fresh out of the battlefield, yet somehow not too dissimilar. He hides it well I think, if I am allowed to claim so after such a short period of knowing each other. 

Charles is asleep already, the smart head on his shoulders standing in direct opposition to my insolent wakefulness, but there is the ominous clack of heeled boots coming from the hallway, undeniable proof that Nurse Finch is coming for her evening rounds – a sure sign for me to try and sleep, lest I fall into her bad graces. 

Aug. 21st 1916, Somme

Another Monday brought yet another inspection courtesy of Doctor Kashi. He's an odd specimen, a little eccentric (if not utterly deranged), but from my one conscious interaction with him, he does appear to be a capable medic. Nurse Jenny has also informed me that he was the one to take over the initial care of my injury, and considering how steadily the recovery is progressing, I have no reason to doubt his skillset. 

On account of the lack of a proper number of screens to divide the room, poor Charles had the unfortunate pleasure of observing the process of Doctor Kashi examining my leg and redressing it in fresh bandages. I am purposefully highlighting his dreary countenance, as when I tuned out Kashi's mad rambling – as little as I can complain about the man’s proficiency, Lord have mercy on me, it seems like his mouth never stops moving – out of the corner of my eye I have found Charles looking a little pale in the face. Now, I will admit that I may have become desensitized to the severity of my predicament – one can see the frail remains of his limb only so many times before growing bored of the view – I do acknowledge that objectively, the sight of it may not be for the faint of heart. 

I will say, though, and only on the pages of this journal, that I found his wan-faced concern strangely sweet. 

On the notion of my physical health it does appear to be coming along slowly but surely – although I will have to admit it is hard to discern the actual state of the matter with my untrained eye. That being said, the Doctor did seem satisfied enough with the meager improvement I might have made in the past two weeks.

Done with my assessment, Kashi moved to Charles next. Now, for the first time since he was brought in, I had the opportunity to observe his injuries directly instead of unintentionally eavesdropping in the middle of the night. During the whole process, I counted five open bullet wounds and multiple grazes, although it needs to be said that I may have miscounted, as the entire affair was of a moderately chaotic nature. The one in his stomach seemed to be the gravest, as they are wont to. Fortunately for Charles however, it does not seem to be so severe as to add to the inherent concern the Doctor seems to possess in all cases. I dare to hope that Charles may be fortunate enough to leave this wretched hospital before me. 

The rest of the Doctor’s rounds were most usual, going bed to bed and either amusing or, to no end, annoying every single patient he interacted with. Before he left, however, I saw him speaking to Nurse Jenny again, and peculiarly enough, he seemed to be looking directly at me. 

Later in the day, Charles insisted on teaching me a game. As reluctant as I was to participate in the activity, unfortunately for me, his charisma tends to be very infectious, and this time, too, I found myself giving in to his wish. That being said I will not go into details of the rules of this game, as I am quite convinced my companion was making them up the spot. I did try calling him out on his little ploy, but he feverishly denied the accusation – that being said, the massive grin that broke out on his face when I laid my claim did not help his case at all. I left it alone then, surrendering completely to the whimsy of it all – and although I would rather go deaf and blind than state it out loud, I do have to admit I had quite a lot of fun. 

Aug. 23rd, 1916, Somme

The main subject of today's talk was family, a topic which one might declare innocent enough, especially between young and homesick soldiers. As is, that was not the case for us. 

Now, I will not claim to know Charles in any real capacity; after all, we have only been acquainted for a mere few days. However, from the impressive collection of subtle expressions he seems to have in his repertoire, which I am slowly learning to categorize and recognize, I think it is safe to assume that he was not happy about that turn of events. Unfortunately for both of us, neither was I. 

We have started with the discussion about our respective parents, as one usually does. As it was, that turned out to be a stilted and (to put it mildly) awkward event, with neither of us willing to share much of our grievances from our home lives. From what we did manage to disclose, I have gathered that Charles’s ‘folks’ (direct quote) are of the ‘less than affectionate' kind, a sentiment which I certainly share. That being said, though, as distant as my own parents are, I do feel like his experiences hold much more darkness, a heaviness that I do not think he wanted me to notice and which I will disregard for now. 

Then again, I was never skilled at reading people, and my assumption may be incorrect. For his sake, I pray it is. 

After the unpleasant affair of conversing about our progenitors, what followed was silence. It was not yet easy, something shared between two souls who know each other so well as to communicate without words, but it was not as uncomfortable as I expected it to be. I think both of us may have needed the brief voiceless respite to gather our thoughts. 

Charles was the first to break it. It did not come to me as much of a surprise, as in recent days, he made himself known to be a relentless chatterbox and a restless heart. That being said, luck was not destined for me at that moment, as he directed the conversation towards the subject of siblings. Begrudgingly I admitted to having three older brothers, all with military careers, with two eldest being married. In lighter spirits, I also shared the existence of my sweet nephew Arthur, the young son of my oldest brother and the only member of my family whose presence I genuinely enjoy. 

That seemed to unearth something in Charles, some burden falling off his shoulders, his entire countenance brightening so suddenly I found myself all but blinded by its abrupt appearance. Through all the conversations we had so far, I had yet to have seen him so thrilled about one of our subjects – which is saying something, taking into consideration his overall easily excitable nature. 

Charles has no older siblings, but he does have a little sister by the name of Clara, soon to be nine summers old. He has positively talked my ear off about her, his tangent going on for a good half an hour, if not more, so much so that now I feel like I know her more than I know her brother. I will not go on a spiral similar to his, as I fear I may run out of pages in this diary if I tried to capture even half of what he told me.

However, on the off chance that The Clara, nearly nine summers old as of today, younger sister of The Charles, will, by some divine intervention, ever get her hands on this diary, I want her to know and never doubt that her older brother loves her very much. 

Aug. 26th, 1916, Somme

Charles finally asked about my journal today. I am saying finally, as I did notice him watching me write in it for a couple of evenings now – never outright, mind, but more than once when I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye, I found his gaze firmly set on myself or my hands. So, it is safe to say I was very much anticipating the question, and when he did inquire at last, I was more than happy to provide answers. 

I gladly explained my intentions behind this notebook – to make sure my history, if it ever becomes worth sharing, is being told in accordance with my actual experiences. I may have also gone on a bit of a tangent afterward, misrating over all the events that were never properly recorded and historical records which turned to fantasy due to the whimsy of their authors’ feelings. I feel I may have amused Charles slightly with that if the grin playing on his lips was anything to go by, but I found myself not minding it too much. And to be perfectly honest, I am becoming increasingly determined to make him smile more often. 

He asked a couple more questions afterward, like how long have I been writing, whether I would continue to do so after the war is over, and others of similar manner. I appreciated every single one of those – even as simple as they were, they depicted a care for my work that I haven't really experienced ever before, even with Monty (may he rest in peace). I answered all of them, growing more excited with each one. 

And then I made a mistake. 

As I explained to Charles that I did not feel yet comfortable enough to allow him unrestricted access to the fruits of my tempestuous mind, I offered him a couple of pieces of paper from the journal and a pen from my (frankly quite extensive) collection, as means of getting him started on his own story. He turned away from me then, breaking away from the attention he was keeping on me so unwaveringly all this time. But before I lost his eyes completely, I did catch a shadow falling over them, one painfully familiar and most unwelcome.

I will never claim to be proficient at reading people; more than once, I have made a societal faux pas due to not having a proper grasp on the emotions and expectations of other involved parties. I think I may never learn to recognize feelings, my own or others, properly. That being said, however, I do know shame – at this point in my life, I am closer to shame than my own kin and on the verge of knowing it intimately. It was never hidden from me that I am a disappointment, and so from early childhood, I knew to be repentant for who I was. 

As such, and as much as he tried, Charles was not able to conceal what I was so used to seeing in my own reflection. Now, I will not make any statements about the source of his sudden misplaced guilt, but if I were to guess, I would assume that he does not feel most confident in the presence of words, whether they are to be written or read. 

Briefly, I debated assuring him that there was nothing to be ashamed about, as in my (albeit short) military career, I have interacted with many men of various levels of literacy and found brilliant minds regardless of whether they were proficient readers or writers. Ultimately, however, I decided to drop the subject completely, concluding that any further mentions of it would only add to Charles’s discomfort. 

Instead, I called his name to get his attention back, and once he finally, reluctantly, met my eyes again, I offered to tell him a story. To my utter delight, he lit up at that, gracing me with another one of those precious smiles. 

I have decided to recall one of my favourite stories from Greek mythology – the tale of Orpheus and Eurydice. I remember losing myself in their yearning many times, out of sight from my family, in fear of being mocked. As I expected, Charles was not familiar with it, and so, to our shared joy, I began the story. 

As much as I find comfort in the myth – the despairing beauty and death-defying devotion motivated by nothing but crystalline love that I have never been bestowed, and may never receive, provides a strangely comforting fantasy, and even the ultimately mournful ending leaves me with nothing but an overwhelming desire for intimacy – in hindsight, I now realise that this may not have been the most fortunate of my decisions, and definitely not in terms of cheering anyone up.

I have gotten as far as Orpheus and Eurydice beginning their attempt to make it out of the Underworld after Hades begrudgingly grants them a try, before we were interrupted. Unfortunately for both of us, too absorbed in each other we did not heed the warning of the setting sun, and by the time Nurse Finch entered the ward, it was too late to salvage the situation. 

She noticed us immediately, the still-lit candle on my bedside table a telltale sign of our wakefulness. I felt the shivers travel down my spine when her cold eyes and malicious smile found me. Usually, even if awake, I managed to pretend to be out for the world well enough for her to move on to other restless men; this time, however, there was no denying my conscious state – or Charles’s, for that matter. 

Now, Nurse Finch is never outright cruel to her victims, but her cutting remarks and subtle torture hidden under the pretense of looking after injuries never fail to make one aware of her displeasure. She got to me first and, in her meticulous care, succeeded in making me bite through my lip in order to stifle any signs of pain, which would only encourage her further. Afterward, she moved on to Charles, and her poking and prodding did not disappoint either – I saw the muscles in his neck tensing notably as she granted him her full, ruthless attention. Still, he managed to remain quiet throughout the entire affair as well. 

Only when she was leaving, her bloodlust hopefully satisfied for the night, I heard him mutter expletives under his breath, cursing her name and calling her a witch. This drew a chuckle out of me, and although I should probably be ashamed of it, the impish grin I received from Charles when he heard my quiet laughter was enough to absolve me from any regrets regarding that matter. 

Charles is asleep now, Nurse Finch done and gone for the night, replaced by the watchful gaze of the Night Nurse Anne. She's a ferocious woman in her own right, certainly strict, but not as wicked in her diligence as her evening shift counterpart. We seem to have reached a silent agreement between us, where I can do my writing in the dim light of dying candles, and she turns a blind eye to my insomniac state, provided I do not disturb other patients. It is a most satisfactory deal, though I do believe she is rather reluctant to be a part of it. 

Looking back, I am made aware that I was never able to finish the tale of Orpheus and Eurydice, yet I cannot help but feel relieved. Despite being enamoured with the myth myself, I may ultimately be glad that we were interrupted in that moment – I do not think I would have been able to stomach voicing the finale of the story into Charles’s vulnerable ears. 

Aug. 28th, 1916, Somme

Lieutenant Thomas visited today. I will have to admit I was not expecting his visit at all, and certainly not so shortly after my injury. He brought news from the front – dire, as anticipated. He was gracious enough to spare me the gory details, regardless of the fact that I am a constant witness of the state of things with every injured fellow who joins our bedridden ranks. 

I informed him, with some sorrow, that my return to his service would not be happening any time soon, if at all. Despite my initial belief that this information would be nothing more than a plain certitude, a fact of life if I may, I was met with regret and no small amount of sadness, which the Lieutenant did not hesitate to disclose. Now, I am plenty aware that (in my experience) the Lieutenant is, if not affectionate, then certainly kind to his subordinates, and I will readily admit that as much as we butted heads in the field, we grew to enjoy each other's company and expertise. And yet, his open amity took me by surprise. 

Curiously enough, it seemed to have also disturbed Charles, who, up to this point, was only listening in on the conversation. It was with no small amount of bite he started questioning the Lieutenant about his military history, experience in and off the field, and possibly most peculiarly of all, our shared past. As baffled as I was by the sudden mutual hostility (Thomas was never one to give up the fight, and this time, his hackles rose, too), I decided to step in before things escalated further. Rather clumsily but successfully, I managed to disarm the situation, directing the conversation back to the seemingly endless altercation with the Germans. Yet despite my best efforts, the air remained sour, and the Lieutenant decided to leave not long after.

Before he did, though, he chose to once again throw me off balance. I am now almost entirely convinced that this little game of his causes him great joy; unfortunately, I cannot say the same. This time, he did so by mentioning his estate in the south of France – sang its praises for a good five minutes and then proceeded to procure a little note, which he left on my lap. It was a fine piece of cream-coloured cardboard, rather expensive if I dare say so myself, with an embossed lily and a correspondence address written in bottle-green ink. Once I picked it up, Thomas encouraged me to write to him, addressing my letters to the estate, and seemingly off-handedly mentioned to visit him there myself once the war was over. He did not give me an opportunity to respond before he left, steps confident but shockingly quiet for the heavy soldier's boots – something in his manner of walk, which always reminded me a bit of a cat. 

Had he not left so suddenly, I would have informed him that I had seen my fill of France for the next decade, if not my entire life. If the Lord allows my safe passage back to England, I do not think I'll be leaving her shores any time soon again. 

Charles was in an inexplicably bad mood for the rest of the day, though. I had given up on prying the sudden source of bitterness out of him around dinnertime; instead, I took up this diary to document the odd encounter. Hopefully, my friend will return to happier spirits by tomorrow morning. 

Sept. 1st, 1916, Somme

I woke up today to the most unbearable heat. Despite the early morning hours, the sun barely peeking out behind the horizon, the air was already beginning to get that feverish quality to it, a sure promise of a day about to become miserable. 

As the dawn started developing into noon, just as I expected, the atmosphere inside the hospital turned almost hellish – not even the thick stone walls of the church we were sequestered in were able to fully shelter us from the insufferable warmth or the humidity that accompanied it. With those conditions aligned perfectly for wounds to rot and fester, many men found themselves complaining or plainly moaning in pain. Two of them were lost before the sun reached its peak. 

I, too, found myself succumbing to my injury, my leg giving me more grief than it tended to on any other day. I tried to stifle the whimpers so as not to wake up Charles and fortunately managed to succeed. I did attract the attention of Nurse Jenny however, who took the opportunity to inspect the wound and redress it in fresh cloth. I couldn’t help to notice the worried crease between her brows as she did that, which immediately made me recall the strange encounter I observed between her and Doctor Kashi not too long ago. Still, she said nothing, so I will refrain from making uneducated assumptions. 

One the notion of Charles, he woke up later in the morning and, to my surprise, seemed to be fairly unbothered by the heat. I did inquire about it once he got through his breakfast and learnt that he had the opportunity to get used to relentless heatwaves in his youth. He did not elaborate further, and I did not press. We tried to move on to lighter topics then, but the thick and tense atmosphere of the hospital did not help our case. Sooner rather than later, we found ourselves falling silent, each of us lost to our own thoughts. 

I was fortunate to have been placed by the window when I was initially brought in, and so as the day progressed, I was able to observe the sky turning from the dull blue shade of too-hot air into something grayer first and then fully dark and menacing. And just like that, the heavens decided to break in half and fall on our heads. The most vicious storm I have ever had the opportunity to experience raged outside, and I couldn't have been more delighted to have a front-row seat to observe it. 

Enamored with the shift in weather, it took me an embarrassingly long while to notice the state Charles was in – shaking in his bed, covers pulled up almost to his chin in a manner indicating that he would rather throw them fully over his head. I tried calling his name first, but his eyes were glazed over and I do not think he could hear me. I decided for a different approach then, and making sure that no one was looking in our direction, reached over the gap between our beds and brushed his shoulder. He recoiled at first, head-turning violently towards me, and for a split second, I feared I had overstepped. But then our eyes met, and just as suddenly as he flinched away, he tipped back towards my still-extended hand, his gaze clearing away before becoming cloudy with tears.

I did not ask whether he was okay when he clearly wasn’t, and I did not comment on the dampness in his eyes. I allowed him to fully lean into my palm, the weight of which must have provided some strange sort of comfort. When a sudden flash of lightning followed by a roaring thunder made him flinch again, I made a decision. 

Stroking his shoulder gently to get his attention back, I offered to explain the reasons behind me being so smitten with the storms. He did not seem too convinced initially, but he agreed, seemingly desperate to get his mind off the tempest outside. 

There are not many advantages to being the youngest of four boys, especially when your personality differs vastly from your older brothers. I have always been the quiet and reserved type, preferring the company of books to the company of people, and generally disengaged from the happenings within the society – the exact opposite of my siblings, all of whom are firmly rooted in the London scene. Considering that, as well as the prominent age gap between myself and them, it is safe to say that we were unable to find a common language, and oftentimes I found myself being the butt of their jokes. 

I am not ashamed to admit that I was unable to defend myself from them – I was rather a frail child, bird-boned and prone to sickness, and as such, not in any position to stand against them by any means. And so, instead of facing them, I chose to hide away. 

There is an attic spreading above our estate, a massive thing spanning over the entire building, with many twists, turns, and rooms left to be forgotten. I found my solace in one of those, a small thing hidden above the staff section of the manor, away from my family quarters and, thus, my boorish kin. 

This small haven of my own making was where I first fell in love with storms. The rain would rap against the roof tiles, filling the space with a steady hum and drowning out the entire world. I remember laying on the floor, looking up through the tiny skylight as the heavens were splitting into millions of shards under the force of lightning strikes, thunder ringing in my ears and settling deep in my bones. 

There was nothing beyond me and that tiny window in those moments, no brothers or fathers or societal expectations. I remember hearing someone once say that there is nowhere more peaceful in the world than the eye of the storm, and in those moments, I found myself in that eye; I found myself being that eye. Amidst all the chaos outside, I was finally able to find peace inside – my thoughts would slow down, and my heartbeat would tune into the patter of the rain. I could have hidden in that attic for hours, forgetting about basic needs and hoping for more bouts of peaceful violence above my head.

I know not how much time had passed before I stopped myself in my ceaseless rambling; it may have been minutes or hours before my tumultuous mind freed me of its clutches back into the world of the living. My hand must have fallen off his shoulder in the process because I found it cradled in his, his thumb drawing circles inside my palm in a manner that may have been fearful once but screamed of nothing but calm in that moment. And through it all, Charles’s eyes have not left mine for a single second, our gazes locked in a tender stalemate. 

As the happenings of real life were starting to catch up to me, the usual noise of the hospital filling my ears once again, I found myself deeply anxious about our sudden proximity; my shoulders stiffened against my will, and subconsciously, I found myself to be the one pulling away this time. 

Before I managed to break our connection completely, however, Charles trapped my hand again, his palm clutching mine tight in his grasp, pulling at it slightly to force our eyes to meet again. And I obliged, unable to resist, as if caught under a spell making me fully pliable to his will. 

He thanked me profusely for the help and care I put into making sure that he was comfortable in the unfavourable circumstances, and then before I managed to get a word in edgewise, he squeezed my hand again and told me that he thinks he finds himself falling in love with a storm too. 

And then, just like that, he let go.

I was struck speechless at that moment, unable to provide any proper response, but in hindsight, I have to admit I am happy to have been able to provide some reassurance and maybe even help him to see storms in a new light. 

Sept. 5th, 1916, Somme

Charles and I talked about our childhood dreams today, as well as our hopes for the future. When I asked him about it at first, he turned pensive – not exactly avoiding my eyes, but not meeting them head-on either. I did not prod, leaving room for the silence and allowing him to decide on what to share at his own pace. He noticed, of course, if the shy, grateful smile he sent my way was any implication, and it was my turn to look away, suddenly made bashful by the gentle intensity of his stare. 

He then confessed to always wanting to travel the world – to see more than just Britain and the coast of Europe. I listened, thoroughly entranced by the way he was describing his visions of lands I had only ever heard of in passing. I admitted, then, to never thinking about the world in such a manner, more comfortable in the haven of what I found familiar. I was fully expecting to see disappointment marring his face then, some dismay at my small-mindedness, but I was met with none. Instead, I found so much painful understanding that for a moment, I was convinced my heart had stopped for eternity. 

Desperate to turn away from the subject, at least in some capacity, I then divulged that ever since I was a boy, I have dreamed of writing. For every occasion, if I were allowed to, I would ask for either pen or paper, to then spend hours pouring my heart onto pages. Charles chuckled at that, not maliciously at all, and said in a tone of voice that I can only describe as fond that I was clearly living my dream – at least to some extent. This had gotten a laugh out of me, the type of amusement that I haven't felt comfortable expressing for quite a while now – a quiet thing, still, but one that shakes my entire upper body in silent mirth. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Charles watching me again, this time the expression on his face saying something that I am yet to decipher.

Then, it was time for another shift in the conversation. Once my mirth died down, Charles disclosed that he would like to remain in the field even after the war ends and called me out on my disbelief when my eyebrows went high enough to reach my hairline. I admitted (begrudgingly) that I couldn't imagine going through it all even one more time, not to mention through the rest of my life. 

And he said, and I will never forget those words, he said he'd do it in every lifetime, as long as it helped people. I admit I have been struck speechless, enough so that I didn't get to tell him this next thing:

You, Charles, may be the best man and the kindest soul I have ever had the luck to meet. 

I will not delude myself so much as to think that we will see each other in old age, but I do dearly hope that in the years to come, we will meet again; with both of us standing on our own two feet, we'll share a bottle of scotch, and reminisce with grief-ridden fondness about this inferno that brought us together. 

Sept. 9th, 1916, Somme

Charles was the one to take charge of our usual conversation, although now, with some hindsight, I think it may not have gone the way he was expecting it to. 

I was taken by surprise from the very start when, of his own volition, he began the subject of his homelife with some general idea of his past and some experience with his attitude to those. To say that I was struck speechless is an understatement. Nonetheless, I decided not to dwell on it too much, happy to listen to whatever he was willing to share. 

He entertained me with a story from not too long ago, a tale of the couple weeks before he was sent to the front lines. As familiarised as I have become with his sense of humour, he still managed to take me by surprise with his playful retelling of a rather salacious affair he participated in last spring. And even though the actual account of events wasn't too risque, his slightly breathless cadence and the interesting word choices made me turn deeper and deeper shades of scarlet with every passing moment – an ailment which Charles definitely noticed and found great joy in, the smugness in his smile undeniable. Once seemingly satisfied that my complexion wouldn't possibly be able to darken even more, he concluded his story by assuring me that this incident was firmly in the past and that he had no intention of continuing it once home. 

And then, he followed up by asking whether I had someone waiting for me back in England. I do not think he was expecting me to say yes because his face turned shockingly pale at my confirmation. 

Her name is Caroline, and she is the daughter of one of my father's closest associates. Since we were born around the same time, it was a given that we would be promised to each other, and my parents never failed to mention our imminent matrimony on any given occasion. I am lucky enough to have met her a couple of times (which is not the case for many arrangements of this sort), and I find her pleasant enough, though not exactly a thrilling companion. As is, I do believe that considering her ‘nice’ is better than holding any resentment – after all, we both are victims of the circumstances. 

As I was explaining my plight to Charles, I watched him go through an amalgamation of emotions which I was not fast or competent enough to catch and discern before his face finally settled on a carefully curated blankness. We fell quiet once I finished, but any comfort we may have usually found in it was completely gone, and it was my own fault. 

Charles was the first one to break the silence. 

“Will you marry her?” he asked me, and up to that point, I knew the answer - it was ‘yes.’ All my life it has been a ‘yes’; never have I been given a chance to ponder or question that choice. But then our eyes met, and all thoughts of a confirmatory response left my mind. “I don't know,” I replied, possessed by what, I have no idea. I think, though, that for the strange flicker of relief in his eyes, I would have been giving that answer for the rest of eternity. Truth be told, at this point, I am still not sure whether the arrangement made for me by my parents will ever have the opportunity to come to fruition.

For whatever reason, my doubt seemed to lighten Charles’s spirits, and I found the knot that was developing in my stomach smoothing out and disappearing completely as the familiar and welcoming warmth returned to him. The quiet was back again, but this time it was the precious one, and after the tense moments seconds prior, I think we were both happy for that short break, allowing us to just look at each other without worry. 

“Well, if you change your mind,” he started again, his tone lighthearted but his eyes full of intent, “You can always go with me once we're both out of here.”

Some confusion crept into my head then, and I needed to ask him what he meant by that. He explained that one of our recent conversations relit the spark of an adventurer in him, and if I wished to do so, I was very much encouraged to join him. He assured me that he did not forget my initial reluctance to travel the world, yet he still found the offer worth making. He promised me that if both of us went, then all the things I was dreading wouldn't be so overwhelming, as he would be there too, helping me every step of the way. 

I was so thrown off balance by the sudden, generous offer that my brain shut me out entirely, leaving me unable to provide an answer, gasping for breath like a fish out of water. 

And Charles, beautiful, considerate, kind Charles, just carried on, directing the conversation into more familiar waters, casually chatting away about everything and nothing, giving me the much-needed time to collect myself. 

I remain in awe of this man who I have met by sheer chance and who may be slowly becoming the most important person in my life. 

Sept. 12th, 1916, Somme

My leg has been giving me particular grief today, the all-consuming dull burn all over the limb feeling as if Satan himself was dancing a jig on it in hobnailed boots – to put it more plainly, I was in great pain. So much so, that I was not able to carry any discussions through the entire morning and most of the afternoon. Only when the sun was well on its way down did the morphine kick in enough to bring me back to lucidity. 

Charles has been with me every step of the way, trying to distract me with conversation at first, though I do not recall much of it; after that, he seemed to resolve to just hold my hand, though I cannot confirm that part in full confidence, as I am half-convinced the heat of his hand in mind was just a figment of my torture-addled mind. 

I was fully back to my wits in the evening, thank the Lord, so once our dinner was finished, and with still some time before Nurse Finch came out for her nightly hunt, I took the opportunity to apologize profusely for my state during the day. Charles rolled his eyes at me, called me ridiculous, and told me to stop acting as if “this was my fault.” Then, suddenly shy, he gently inquired whether I would be kind enough to tell him another story. I agreed readily, never one to miss an opportunity to share my interests with him; now, I also suspect it may have been him seeking comfort for the both of us after all this exhaustion. 

For some reason, the first tale that popped into my head at his request was the myth of Achilles and Patroclus – again, not exactly the best source of relief, yet once it made its appearance, I could not shake it off. I warned Charles that my choice did not have a happy ending, and he assured me he didn't mind. And so, having no other choice, I shared the myth. 

He did tear up multiple times throughout the retelling, as I expected, and the tears were free-flowing down his face by the end of it. Still, all the while, he made no noise, his gaze set firmly on me (a pattern I have been noticing in the past couple of weeks), a soft smile playing in the corners of his lips despite the tragedy I was painting before him. 

We got lucky this time as I managed to finish before the ominous heel clacking made itself known in the hallway. In those few short seconds, we managed to make ourselves appear on the verge of sleep, with Charles even managing to blow out the candle at the last moment. The stars looked down at us with benevolent eyes because she disregarded us completely and moved on to her rounds without fuss.

Once the nurses switched again, Night Nurse Anne taking her usual post, I decided to sit up again and relight the candle Charles put out. The moon was already high in the sky, and I was fully convinced my neighbour was asleep.

Imagine my surprise then when, upon turning my head, I found him lying on his side watching me intently, eyes bright and awake, with flickers of gold dancing in them in the dim glow. I do not know how long we were staring at each other like that, silent and motionless, with our shadows dancing together in the candlelight. 

“Do you ever wonder,” he whispered to me, “how the story would have turned out if Patroclus survived?” but there was so much more to the question that he wasn't saying, so perfectly readable in his eyes in a language I was not yet privy to know but desperate to understand. I couldn't help it; I had to look away, if only to gather my thoughts. 

Charles waited for me, kind and patient as always, allowing me to approach his questions – the ones asked out loud and the ones remaining unsaid – at my own pace. Only when I was ready to answer did I turn back to him.

I don't think Achilles and Patroclus were made for a happy ending, not because they were undeserving of it, but because the circumstances of their story were never going to allow for one. I never wondered about what would have happened if he had survived because he was never meant for a long life. And if he did live, it still wouldn't stop the wheels of fate from turning towards Achilles’s doom, for history teaches that heroes rarely get to see old age. I think that despite the tragedy of it all, both of them dying near back to back was the happiest of endings they would have been allowed to get because if Patroclus had survived, he would have to keep surviving alone. 

I explained as much to Charles, who simply reached his palm out towards me in response, urging me to grasp it. I obliged, tentative but not uneasy, and felt his fingers close around mine tightly. He pulled at my hand lightly, compelling me to pay him my full attention, and once he had it, he rewarded me with a tender smile. 

“You have a beautiful mind, Edwin,” he told me. I cannot say I was prepared for this sentiment, but I was not left without words this time, maybe since it was not the first time he'd said something to knock me off my feet. 

And so, squeezing his fingers just as tightly in return, I did not hesitate to tell him something I knew I would grow to regret if left unsaid – that the beauty of my mind meant nothing in comparison to his heart. 

For I have never met a man like you before, Charles, who will not let his compassion and kindness die even in the worst of worlds. 

Sept. 16th, 1916, Somme

The word on the hospital floor is that the Allies have made another attempt at moving the frontline further north and getting the upper hand over the Germans. There seems to be some truth to that, at least in terms of a battle raging outside with renewed vigour, as many more men were brought in over the course of the day. Whether the front is undergoing actual changes, I cannot say as, at this point, the constant ringing of artillery has infiltrated my ears permanently, and I am no longer able to discern the actual volume of it in the distance. 

There is a new patient in the bed on Charles's left. He was brought early in the morning, awake and conscious, which did not serve him well if the anguished screams that accompanied Nurse Jenny as she took care of his wounds were any indication.  I believe it would have been better for everyone involved if the man lost consciousness sometime throughout the process, yet he remained stubbornly awake. 

I do not have the best view on his bed, my vision shrouded by Charles, and so I was not fully able to discern what the exact issue was – that is until Charles took notice of my poorly concealed curiosity and began describing the proceedings. I have been told there was some shrapnel in his left calf, apparently a direct result of an ill-timed explosion. I am starting to believe that to target their own men accidentally is a unique skill of the British army. 

There was a strange cadence to the man at the beginning of his stay in the ward. Apart from the clear distress caused by his wound being handled, I couldn't help but ignore the grating, dry cough that accompanied the procedure; I also think I heard the poor soldier give in to nausea on more than one occasion. Those symptoms, however, seemed to dissipate as the day progressed. 

Sometime closer to noon, Charles's other neighbour regained enough lucidity to strike up a conversation. He introduced himself as Ian but did not provide a last name, which I found curious, as he then claimed his rank as Second Lieutenant – and I have always found those men proud of their heritage. 

Charles took it upon himself to lead the conversation between the three of us, though I found myself slowly pattering out of it as it progressed. He and Ian, however, seemed to have immediately developed a liking for each other, so much so that by the time the other man decided to take a nap, he was in every other sentence my neighbour uttered to me. 

I do not wish to be misunderstood – Ian seems a pleasant chap and seemingly similar to me in character, at least according to Charles's opinion. He's an educated fellow who favours literature, and I am inclined to believe that under any other circumstances, we may have gotten along. In my defense, I did make another attempt at befriending the man, yet despite any similarities we may have been sharing, finding a common language remained a struggle, especially since Ian's attention seemed to waver on to Charles constantly. 

I let go then, picking up a book from my nightstand, one I had started before Charles joined me here and have struggled to finish ever since. This time too, I couldn’t focus on it, my mind and gaze drawn to Charles and Ian. I desperately tried not to eavesdrop on their talk. Still, it was impossible, especially when Charles threw his head back, laughter shaking his entire upper body and causing him to wince in discomfort seconds later. That laugh kept ringing in my ears for hours on end. 

Nurse Jenny returned later in the afternoon to reinspect Ian’s injury due to its freshness and took that opportunity to take a look at Charles's dressings and my own leg. It is difficult for me to discern whether the state of it had progressed or deteriorated since when I last saw it, and the Nurse's face remained impassive as she rewrapped it into fresh bandages. Before she left, though, I did hear her telling Ian that his limb looked much worse for wear than it was in reality, and he should make a quick enough recovery with every possibility of being able to fully return to service. 

He fell asleep soon enough, leaving Charles and me alone again, although not for long, as my companion decided to follow suit shortly after. Meanwhile, I managed to successfully hide away from Nurse Finch all through her shift, and as usual, I took up this journal once the Night Nurse Anne entered the ward. Both men remain steadily asleep, Charles’s soft snores and Ian's strangely wheezing breath being the only sounds to accompany me through my solitude. 

Sept. 17th, 1916, Somme

Ian is dead. 

I managed to fall asleep yesterday sometime after finishing my record but was woken up deep into the night by his coughing. This time, however, it was different – not the parched sound I grew to associate with an irritated throat, but something much more savage. It was a deep, piercing, rattling sound that shook me to my bones. It immediately drew the attention of Night Nurse Anne and woke up Charles not too long after my own awakening. 

None of us slept a wink from then on. 

The Nurse lit up as many candles as she could find, illuminating our corner of the hospital with a soft, golden glow. I found Charles looking at me with bleary-eyed confusion and distress before his and mine attention was dragged back to Ian. Even from two beds away, I could hear his ragged breaths, each followed by a strange, crackling sound. This kept going on into early morning hours, desperate gasps for air followed by earth-shaking coughs, and accompanied by panicked cries for help. 

As the sun rose fully over the horizon, Ian's state worsened even further, and I could hear him hackle and spit, soft sounds of something viscous hitting the bottom of a metal bowl thundering in my ears. 

I was suddenly reminded of the summer years ago when one of my older brothers was almost lost to the currents of the river crossing our estate. My two remaining siblings managed to pull him out in time, yet to this day, I remember his ghastly state in the days that followed, how violently he was shaking and regurgitating the water that flooded his lungs. That's what Ian reminded me of – a man drowning. 

He was gone before noon. 

My placement allowed me to avoid getting a full look at the affair, but poor Charles wasn't so lucky, having a front-row seat for witnessing Ian’s gruesome death. He cried silent tears as his neighbour struggled and sobbed properly once he was gone. It was weighing on him heavily the debilitating helplessness and horrors that he witnessed in the span of a few hours. I found his hand between our beds, clasped it tightly in mine, and offered to listen and share his burden, and so, he told me everything. 

Ian suffered a terrible fate – later in the day, we both learned that what we witnessed was a phosgene poisoning, possibly caused by the same explosive that injured his leg. The hacking sound I heard was him spitting out the fluid building up in his lungs, staining his front and bedsheets with blood and mucus. One of his hands stuck firmly to his chest through it all, desperately trying to squeeze out whatever substance was drowning him to no use. 

Yet what struck me the most was Charles's description of Ian's fear through it all. There was no consoling the man, no way of providing comfort as his own body turned against him piece by piece, taking away any control he had over himself – his breath, his movement, his sanity, every single piece of him becoming hostile, leaving him petrified with dread in bedsheets soiled with blood, sweat, vomit, and feces. 

Throughout the retelling Charles retched two times himself, and I felt guilty for making him talk. Yet by the time he was finished, he seemed marginally lighter, any paleness I noticed earlier dissipating, the terror in his eyes replaced by grief. We did not talk much through the rest of the day, each of us lost in our own minds, and I heard him whimper every time his head turned left – through it all, I did not let go of his hand, pulling at it lightly to bring him back to me every time he wavered. 

I find myself feeling disconcerted and fearful. In the walls of the hospital and with Charles by my side, there are days when I forget that we are in the middle of war and more men are lost every day. Now, though, I cannot help but think how easily that could have been me in Ian's place – if Simon's mishap was a chemical weapon instead of a grenade turned against our own men through a stroke of bad luck.

How close am I to suffering Ian's fate? Is his death an omen for me? A sign to start counting my days? I am surrounded by death in this wretched place, yet I have not felt this close to it until him. 

And yet I look to my left, and instead of an empty cot, I see Charles dozing off gently, his head lolling onto his shoulder in a manner that will surely result in a painful knot later on. To think that if it weren't for the barrier that he provides, I would have seen myself die in another bed. What if he is the one holding it all off? My own guardian angel, personified, keeping me alive. 

Sept. 19th, 1916, Somme

Second half of the month brought forth the visit of Father Hall, who, unless explicitly called upon, made his appearance once every few weeks in this compact Purgatory of ours. I was excited for his visit, as I deeply enjoyed our discussion during his last rounds, and was not left disappointed once he finally came. We shared a pleasant conversation after my confession, though not as long as I would have liked it to be; however, I do understand the haste, as the ranks of bedridden men have nearly doubled since a month ago. 

He approached Charles next, but my companion sent him away, the expression on his face not exactly hostile but certainly not welcoming. He remained tense for the rest of the Father's presence in our ward. He let out a deep sigh once the clergyman's footsteps died down in the corridor, yet did not relax any further beyond that one deep breath. 

“I just don't understand why his presence here was necessary,” he stated tensely, not really addressing anyone. And so I tried to hold back any hurt I could have felt at the notion – Charles was patient with me so many times already, it was only fair I returned the favour. And so I wordlessly reached out my hand, allowing him to make the final decision whether to take it or not, and tried for an encouraging smile to assure him that I would listen to any frustrations he was willing to share. 

That seemed to unknot something within him as his shoulders finally dropped and hunched over slightly. He squeezed my hand and gave me a small, grateful smile. 

Charles is not a religious man. He explained to me that he vaguely remembers his mother being a believer, but she gave it up when he was still a young boy, under the influence of his father, who remains strictly against God and the Church. 

I nodded sympathetically at that, admitting that my family seemed to be the direct opposite, with the Lord accompanying us every step of the way for as long as I can remember. I recall spending hours in Church during sermons or in Sunday School, just listening to the preacher, utterly enthralled by the Heavenly Grace. 

I may have made a mistake by asking whether he ever considered turning to God despite his father, if the strange look I received was anything to go by. 

He told me he does not ever see himself becoming a believer, as he refuses to believe in any god who would allow for our current circumstances. We did squabble due to that a bit then, him still not entirely free of his vexation, and myself too stubborn to let it go. I explained the concept of the Original Sin to him, and he responded by asking why God placed the tree in the Garden of Eden in the first place when He could have put it anywhere. 

And when I noted that perhaps He was testing Adam and Eve, he said: “How then can you say that He loves us unconditionally, when the very first thing He does is put our love for Him to the test?” rendering me speechless once again. We both then silently agreed to drop the subject to try to move on to something lighter, as it was turning out to be quite a sore spot for both of us.

Yet I couldn't help but notice that even in the face of our row he did not let go of my hand, nor I of his. 

Sept. 22nd, 1916, Somme

I must be losing my wits. The chaos of the battle, impossible to shake even away from the front, must have finally entered my mind. Or maybe the constant smell of life and death permeating the grounds of this place altered the structures of my brain. 

What other reason would there be for the predicament I found myself in? I look into his eyes, so deeply brown they are nearly black, splattered with flecks of gold which make me think of the sky at night (and when have I had enough time to comprehend the wonders of his eyes?); I look into his eyes, and for those seconds I feel more at peace than ever before, more so even than when the preacher would absolve me of my sins after the confession.

I do not know when it happened, when this affection I have for him turned into something burning and dangerous, but here I am, drawing a carnation in the corner of this page, and I think it may be too late for me. 

Not even a month have I known him, and yet I could spend pages upon pages and journals upon journals of writing and still not get to the bottom of what he means to me. 

You have crept up on me, Charles, as suddenly and quietly as the night outside, and I am utterly lost as to what to do with myself now. How can I ever leave this hospital and return to my life in Britain when I know that going back there means losing this thing between us? 

Or maybe it is the fever talking, as she refuses to leave my side for a third day in a row already, fogging my brain and making my thoughts spiral out of my control. But even if it is my delirious state, it has only added to the fire of something which was already long burning outside of my consciousness. 

He, Charles, you, you, the only thing on my mind is you. 

Sept. ?? 1916, Somme

I am lost, days and nights blending together into an inferno under the influence of the fever, which still keeps its tight hold on me. Even now, with my pen and my paper, I am not entirely sure whether the words running around my head will make sense once revealed or even if my moving hand is not a figment of my imagination.

There is a wet rag clinging to my forehead, drops of water making their way onto the pages and smudging the ink around. It was supposed to be a comfort once upon a time, the cool cloth a brief solace in my personal Hell, yet whatever cold it held, it disappeared within seconds upon making contact with my feverish skin.

I remember the preacher in my Sunday school drilling the seven deadly sins into our brains with relentless passion. Even amidst the chaos of the days that are, I am certain I'd be able to list them all in order without a second thought. Lust. Gluttony. Greed. Sloth. Wrath. Envy. Pride. Sure ways of forsaking one's Soul from ever seeing the Grace of the Father above. 

But I wonder these days, isn't love the worst sin of all? When Adam took that cursed bite, didn't he do that out of his love for Eve? Aren't the seven vices a direct result of loving something, maybe too strongly? 

And the fall that comes with love, is it alike to Lucifer's fate? Which is the sin, the love or the fall, and what is the difference when they're so intricately tied together? Are they one and the same? Or is the fall the punishment for love?

I feel the flames of Hell dancing under me, burning the soles of my feet, traveling up my calves and thighs and hips, burning in my chest and stomach, setting the entirety of me ablaze. Is it my penance to be burned alive, not unlike the witches of Salem?

And yet the Lord said, "Love thy neighbour".  Did he then absolve us all from the curse of falling? And if He did, how am I to be damned for eternity when the principle of His Golden Rule is the only thing in my heart and mind when I look at you?

If those are my last moments before eternal damnation, you must know, Charles, that I do not regret lov

Oct. 7th, 1916, Somme

Infection. Gangrene, to be precise, at least, this is what I have been told upon waking up. I have also been informed that despite the best attempts, as much as there was a way to salvage me, there was no chance of saving my leg. I think saying ‘I feel lighter now’ may come across as inappropriate or even downright insensitive, albeit I cannot help but admit that it is a relief. The limb has been causing me so much grief for so long now; maybe now, with it gone, I will finally start making proper progress, and the worried look in Doctor Kashi's and Nurse Jenny's eyes will disappear for good. 

I am rereading the last entries I remember writing and those few that I do not, trying to establish a proper time frame for the order of events. Nevertheless, I find myself at a loss. It seems the sickness had gotten the best of me before I was able to fully register its presence. 

I do not feel regret over the words I have written down when out of sorts, as they may be the truest version of me I ever allowed a presence on paper - with any inhibitions lost to the ill daze, it seems I have been freer with my thoughts than ever before. 

I wonder if the loss of my leg was the price to be paid for the feelings that I dare to have or whether this was the diseased piece of me which my soul needed gone to finally allow itself to love without inhibitions. 

I have missed you, Charles, even though I know you were next to me this entire time. Through the haze, I think I may even remember your hand in mine, holding on steadfastly.

You were kind enough to relay some of the events that passed unbeknownst to me, including the entire gory process of getting rid of the weight dragging me down. Apparently Nurse Jenny was the one assisting Doctor Kashi during the entire process. “Right butcher, that woman,” you said, making me smile. You smiled too, then, not hiding your relief from me, your hand finding mine again, hidden between our beds.

Your eyes, however, were sparkling more than usual when you looked at me, and I thought I saw a single tear running down your face. But you didn't want me to see it, so I acted like I didn't notice. Why were you crying, my darling, when I'm still here? Would you be so bold as to mourn me openly? I would be, I think. I would mourn you for the rest of my life.

Then you told me there was a storm when I was still gone, not as massive as the one we have been through at the end of summer, nonetheless. I was about to apologize, my mouth already hanging open, but squeezed my hand and beat me to it. 

You said that the days leading up to it were unbearably hot and humid again, and my fever was not letting go even with the leg gone; you thought you'd lose me. But then the storm came, suddenly and viciously, and you told me that even through your fear, you remembered the stories I told you all this time ago – and that's when you knew I'd be okay. And that same evening, you said, my fever finally broke. 

I did not tell you this, but I was suddenly reminded of what you told me that day after I finished my story. I wonder now, did you know even then that we would find ourselves here, or was it a self-fulfilling prophecy that lent you those words? Lost in these thoughts I did not notice you smiling at me until moments later; I think you knew what I was thinking, and that's when I had my answer. 

Oct. 10th, 1916, Somme

I must know, my darling, what were you thinking last night, for I am inclined to believe you were not thinking at all when you crept out of your bed, the moon already high and the other patients fast asleep, and you slipped onto the covers right next to me. There are still ink stains on my fingertips from when I dropped my pen in shock and scrambled to catch it before it splattered on my bed sheets. 

Your expression was smug and unapologetic, smile wide and wild even in the face of the outraged Night Nurse Anne, whose gasp I could hear from the other end of the dimly-lit hall. Yet she did not react beyond that, giving us a long look before turning away in a manner indicating purposeful ignorance of whatever events took place in front of her. 

And then I realised that you were next to me, finally side by side, our legs, hips, and shoulders touching, and I could feel the heat of your body even through the layers of clothes and bedding. There was no salvaging my covers then, pen falling out of my palm once again, ink splotches staining the fabric all over my lap. 

You reached for that pen, and I allowed you to pick it up, your fingers so feather-light on the linen they have barely disturbed its surface, and yet I swear I could feel them burning on my thigh. 

The pen was awkward in your hand as if you were not sure how to hold it properly, so I took your palm and rearranged your fingers around it, making sure it fit smoothly in every crease. You looked at it in wonder before gazing at the page, curiosity and want clear in your eyes. So I engulfed your hand in mine and led it gently, placed the tip of the pen on the page, and guided you through every single letter of your name, now forever immortalized in my journal. 

I watched you look at your handwriting in awe, the sweetest, softest smile breaking out on your face slowly, like the sun rising over the horizon on a spring day. I wish I were an artist with skills enough to capture that smile on canvas, every fold and crease that is chiseled intricately on your face translated into millions of brush strokes made with relentless devotion. Alas, I can only hope my words manage to convey even a fraction of that beauty on paper. 

Our eyes met over the notebook, our hands still joined with the pen between our fingers, and it was like time froze in that moment, our gazes locked with only inches between us, hot breathes mingling in the narrow space, as if the entire world was holding its breath. 

Until something clattered to the floor not far away from us, and we were both startled, probably more than we should have, turning around to see the Night Nurse picking some medical tools from the floor while also giving us a not-so-subtle look demanding we go to sleep;  and just like that, whatever the moment was, it had been broken. You chuckled then, dropping your forehead on my shoulder, and I found myself shaking in silent laughter, too. But Nurse Anne was never one to give up easily, and her pointedly clearing her throat was a warning enough to cut our night short. 

You climbed out of my bed then and back to yours, but before you left, I watched as you traced your finger over your name for the last time, smudging the few remaining drops of ink and blurring it slightly. 

Oct. 14th, 1916, Somme

Fifth night in a row, you have made your way into my bed late in the night, your head already a familiar and comforting weight on my shoulder, your thumb carving a circular indent inside my palm. We were silent most of the time, only sharing an occasional joke under our breaths and chuckling to ourselves, unfailingly disapproving yet silent eyes of the Night Nurse setting pointedly on us every time we dared to disturb the quiet. Safe and comfortable in the moonlight, I remembered the question you had asked me a few weeks ago, and in the spur of the moment, I have decided to answer it. 

“I would like to,” I began, your head rising to meet my gaze, your eyes confused and slightly fogged over. “If your offer still stands,” I continued, “I would like to join you on your travels once we are done with this place.”

You lit up at that, one of those bright, precious smiles splitting your face in half. Yet I couldn't help but notice the subtle watery sheen still present in your eyes – not a result of you being touched by my offer, but something more treacherous.

We began making plans then, pouring over an imaginary map of the globe, debating over which places we wanted to visit and in what order. Your instant demand was to see India, your mother’s homeland. Though I was immediately overwhelmed by the distance, I readily agreed, never one to deny something meaning so much to you.

I then suggested Greece, as it is closer to our current whereabouts. I watched the excited sparkle appear on your face, and I knew that your mind was already filled with ideas. We prepared an entire agenda for our stop there, visiting as many places tying back to the myths I shared with you over our time together, squabbling good-naturedly over the proper order of things. I had to remind you over and over again that what was considered Troy at the time was currently within the borders of the Ottoman Empire, and you kept shrugging it off before deciding that it would simply be our next stop. 

There was no stopping us then, making plans and throwing claims and destinations more and more outrageous by the second. In the span of the hour, we have traveled almost the entire world in our shared dream, stopping in the States and Brazil, crossing over the oceans left and right as if there was nothing to hold us back - no war, no economy, no person able to stand in our way.

Your head drooped onto my shoulder again as you rambled, and I watched you talk, enthralled by every single word that left your lips. Yet I couldn't stop noticing the gloss in your eyes, the sweat pooling on your brow, your speech becoming frenzied and mumbled, your hand getting hotter and hotter in mine. 

I am worried about you, my darling, and the sure signs of fever encroaching on our haven. We are set to visit every corner this Earth has to offer, yet I fear you may be making arrangements outside my knowledge, leading you somewhere I may not be able to follow. 

Oct. 16th, 1916, Somme

There is a bullet wound in your hip. I must have missed it during my initial assessment of your injuries back when you were brought in, and I know I shouldn't blame myself for it, as my vision was severely limited when you were checked over first, yet I cannot help but feel guilty. Maybe if I hadn't omitted it, if I paid more attention to you back then, we could have stopped this from happening. 

There is a bullet wound in your hip, an ugly, angry, swollen thing with jagged, graying edges and pus leaking out of it. The festering rot hit my nostrils as soon as Doctor Kashi uncovered it, yet I refused to look away, reaching my palm out in broad daylight and grasping yours, desperately seeking to provide some comfort. 

There is a bullet wound in your hip, and you managed to turn even paler than you were for the past few days when you looked at it, blood rushing out of your face at the gory sight; you refused to look away even as I pulled at your hand to get your attention and distract you. 

Doctor Kashi couldn't hide the worry on his face as he was handling it, and even the ever-stoic Nurse Jenny seemed moved at the sight, clear concern visible in her eyes. The entire ward was silent as they inspected your injury and fed you medication to fight the fever and inflammation. 

You fell asleep soon after they were done, skin clammy and discoloured, thrashing in your bed influenced by whatever delirious visions were flooding your vulnerable mind.

There is a bullet wound in your hip, which I have somehow missed, and it has a hold on you so tight I fear it may never let you go. I have no idea what my current standing with God is, whether He frowns down upon me, considering me another lost cause in His plan, but I pray and will keep praying for an accord granting you more time, even at the cost of my own fall from His Grace. 

Oct. 24th, 1916, Somme

You have not woken up yet, seized by the illness wrecking your body inside and out for the past eight days, keeping you steadfastly away from me in your unconsciousness. I rarely let go of your palm nowadays; most of my daily tasks are left to be handled by my right hand. I have spilled food, water, and ink over my sheets and myself more times than I could count, yet I refuse to be embarrassed about it and refuse to give it up. Nurse Jenny, and surprisingly also the Night Nurse, are incredibly kind in their quiet if begrudging assistance. 

The only times I let you go are the evenings when Nurse Finch returns for her regular strolls, vulture-like gaze running over every single patient, looking for a target to fall victim to her bottomless malice. But once she disappears, footsteps dying down in the corridor, I find you again. 

You talk a lot through your fever, mostly about your family and home life, and I hate every single word ripped forcefully from your lips, knowing you don't share your past with me willingly. I wish I could forget everything I have heard over those few days, extract it all from my unruly ears, erase it from my mind, yet I cannot. 

Charles, I have said once already that you are the best man I have ever had the pleasure to meet, and with the context I have unfortunately been granted in the past week, I can also confirm that you are the strongest, bravest person in my life. 

You are growing disturbed again, delirious from fever and whatever visions are plaguing you. You are crying, whether in fear or pain, I do not know, but it breaks my heart all the same. Tears are flowing down my face in perfect tandem with yours, and I am so overwhelmed by helplessness that I find myself unable to think straight. My words do not seem to be reaching you anymore, you're in too deep, drowning in your febrous thoughts. 

Come back to me, my darling, please, because I will not allow you to abandon me. In sickness, you have stood by my side, and I will do the same for you so that one day we can stand together in health. 

Oct. 27th, 1916, Somme

Your fever finally broke last night with a silent sob which shook the Earth in the middle of the night. I woke up immediately, finding myself still holding your hand even through the sleep. The Night Nurse was already by your side, changing a compress on your forehead, and in the flickering candlelight, I thought I saw relief. 

You're awake now, still gray in the face, with your cheeks hollowed and eyes sunken in, only beginning your path to recovery. But you're awake now, looking at me and smiling softly, and your eyes still sparkle like they used to before you were taken from me, and I think that maybe God has not forsaken me after all if you are still next to me. 

Oct. 31st, 1916, Somme

You are back at my side, in my bed, our hands intertwined in your lap. The Night Nurse helped you to get here, catching you in the waist when you almost toppled over, and as she assisted you through that half-step between our cots, she did not manage to fully hide the beginnings of a fond smile on her face. 

You asked me for another story tonight, and I finally found one with a happy ending. I told you the myth of Perseus, an edited version of it due to its length, and by the end of it, you were crying again, but this time, it was happy tears. I explained that he was the only one to ever get a proper happy ending in mythology, and you chuckled, saying that now I properly ran out of cheer-up stories. I found myself laughing too, playfully threatening that you should not underestimate my arsenal of tales and that had gotten a proper laugh out of you, one that you had to muffle with my shoulder lest the Night Nurse changed her mind about. 

I wish I was a musician to have the knowledge of the notes and sounds suitable enough to capture your laughter on paper properly, but even then, I do not think I would be able to fully explain the music that shakes your body with joy. 

You rested your head on its usual spot, nuzzled in the crease of my neck, and told me you wished I could have the same happy ending Perseus did. 

“You can travel the world for me, then,” you said, and I shook my head fondly. “Don't be silly,” I replied, “There will be no happy ending without you. We will travel the world together.” You huffed at that, amused and exasperated in equal part, and said nothing in return. 

You are starting to fall asleep next to me now, and I hate to wake you up, but you will be more comfortable in your own bed.

I helped you cross over, holding onto your elbow tightly to keep you upright, leaning out of my cot as far as I could. Before you laid down, I felt your lips caressing my forehead gently, soft between my brows yet holding the power of a benediction. 

I find myself sleepy, maybe for the first time in a long time, yearning for rest instead of doing it out of duty and common sense; your gentle touch seems to have finally silenced my rambunctious thoughts. The pen is becoming too heavy in my hand, and the candle on our bedside table is running out of wax; I will sleep now. 

Goodnight, Charles. 

Nov. 1st, 1916, Somme

Where are you, my love? 

Chapter Text

From the diaries of Lance Corporal E. N. Payne (1900-1989), discovered and published in 1991 by Charlotte Payne (granddaughter). 

Below is believed to be the first poem of the collection of works written by Payne between November 1916 and March 1917, detailing his experiences during the First World War, in particular the Battle of Somme (July to November 1916)

For C

You left without goodbye
In quiets of the night
I know not where you've gone
Lost to the full moonlight
You left on Hallows' Eve
Death took you by the hand
As if the Lord above
Claimed Heavens missed a Saint
You left without goodbye
Yet still, please hear my prayer 
In 'nother life, a kinder world
Wait for me, find me there

E. N. Payne, Somme, Nov 1st, 1916

Chapter Text

“Hey Crystal, do you think they found each other? In the afterlife, I mean.”
“I don't know, Niko; I'm not exactly in the business of wondering about dead people. But…”
“Yeah?”
“I think they might have. I hope they did.”