Casualties of War

Fields of tall grass swayed in the summer's breeze. The water birds took flight from the lake, their pale wings as silent ghosts upon the wind. Victor strolled through the fields, enjoying the feel of cool earth beneath his bare feet, making his way calmly to the lakeside. He cherished the smell of the grass in his lungs, the soothing caress of the air as it traced invisible lines over his skin. After five years away, home was full of feelings to be savoured; a thousand sensations to treasure. Just beyond the lake sat his house, a small building that nestled between the lake and the river that flowed into it. He would have saved almost an hour of walking if he had taken the ferry across the river, but the draw of the fields of his youth were too great to resist. Home was not just the house or the lake; it was the cyan sky, the soft golden sun upon the grass. Home was the fresh air, untouched by the cities. Home was a place free from the woes of war. For five long years, his service had held a relentless enemy at bay. Now that enemy no longer troubled their land, and Victor could return. For more than anything else, home was to be held in the arms of his wife, and the gleeful laughter of his daughter. Even the sword hanging at his belt, a constant reminder since his release from service, could not blunt his high spirits.



Victor looked to the fading sun, which painted the flats of his land in a gentle amber glow, and guessed Hannah would be starting on dinner soon. And Sarah, his sweet young girl, would now be old enough to help. Moisture glistened in his eyes. He had missed so much. With thoughts of his family firmly in mind, he now regretted not taking the ferry. He quickened his stride, walking with a firm purpose. From the chimney of the house smoke arose, twisting in the air as the wind carried it higher. The smell of food cooking over the fire would normally have brought to mind visions of fresh roasted vegetables, a warming stew, and tea to wash it down, but now all he could see was the image of his wife, standing attentively over a boiling pot. His pace hastened into a run. In less than a few minutes, he would be home with his family, where he belonged. As he neared, he heard laughter coming from within. Hannah's lilting voice carried on the wind, and his daughter--whose voice now carried more strength than when he had left--laughed in unrestrained glee. Victor wept openly; no one would see, and even so, who would judge. Then a discordant note sounded amongst the gaiety. A deeper timbre of laughter rung out, a distinctly masculine sound. Victor shook off the moment of confusion; he surely didn't expect Hannah not to have any visitors while he was gone. And the near impossibility of sending messengers with the aftermath of a war meant she wouldn't be expecting him, so why would he expect her to have no company. Though Victor could not remember any men she had been close to before his departure, five years was a long time. Much could happen in such a time.



He bounded up the steps to the doorway, his feet barely making a sound on the old wood. At the door, he froze for an instant. Unsure of how to approach the situation, he took a deep breath and decided the best choice would be to knock, to fully surprise Hannah.



He rapped lightly on the door, and sound stopped within. Victor heard the male voice say in soft tones "Who would that be, at this hour?"



No vocal reply was forthcoming, but footsteps approached the door from within. They were heavy and had the ring of boots striking wood. Victor found it passing strange that a guest would answer, but it seemed to make sense that the strongest would be the first to the door outwith usual hours of visiting.



The door opened, the man on the other side standing at a height with Victor, though gone slightly more to fat that the battle-worn fighter. Dark brown hair sat in a mussed up style atop a tall face, and green eyes looked with curiosity at the man who stood before him.



Victor was caught in a moment of ill-ease; the man he faced stood with the protective bearing of one who defended his own, and such a stance rendered him mute. Hannah's visitor was the first to break the silence, one eyebrow raised in scrutiny.



"May I ask your business, sir?"



Shaking out of his shock, Victor found himself irritated. Though the man clearly did not know him, it balked him that he should be asked about his business at his own door. Trying to soften the edge to his voice, Victor replied, "My business is my own within my own home, Sir, and I would like to enter."



Victor attempted to take a step inside, but found his way blocked. "This is Hannah Garret's home, Sir, and it is time you left."



The man made to grab Victor, but five years at war had sharpened his reflexes, and his sword was at the man's neck before he could get a grasp.



The man's eyes widened, fear shining behind the green. He held his hands up in submission.



"I don't know what you want, but do not harm us and you may have it."



Confusion wracked at Victor's mind. He struggled to understand this turn of events. A thud from within the house drew him out of his thoughts. He looked past the shoulders of the man who until now had blocked his way, and saw the form of Hannah sprawled on the floor. Instinct taking over, he rushed through the threshold before the other man could protest, and knelt beside his wife.



"Hannah?" He gently shook her, but she did not stir. He put his ear to her lips, and heard her breathing. He turned to the man in the doorway, confusion and anger giving a bite to his words. "Who are you, and what happened to Hannah?"



The man pulled himself to his feet, his face a mask, though he still kept distance between Victor and himself. A thin red line marked his neck where the sword had broken skin.



"I'm Steven. I'm Hannah's husband. Now tell me how you know my wife!"



The words raced around Victor's mind in a blur, a shifting mist of lost meaning. Whoever this Steven was, something bizarre was happening here. He looked into Steven's eyes, his stare intense. "Don't lie to me. I'm Hannah's husband, Victor Garret."



Steven's brow furrowed in thought, then shock overtook his feature. "God, it can't be. You're dead." Quickly, shock was replaced with unfettered anger. "Victor Garret died in the first year of the war!"



Both men looked poised for battle, when a groan brought their attention back to Hannah. For an instant, her eyes fluttered, then opened. Looking up from the floor, the sight she had hoped wasn't real confronted her yet again. Her dead husband knelt by her side, while the man she had married after his 'death' stood by the door. She stared into Victor's eyes, tears gathering as her emotions threatened to tear her apart.



"Victor, I'm sorry."



Victor's eyes misted over, and his mind shrank in the enormity of it. He closed his eyes, for only a moment, but when he opened them, the sun was rising. Sitting on the stairs of the house, Victor watched the sunrise casting a crimson glow over dry, old fields, and felt the cold breeze raise goosebumps on his skin.



He stroked Hannah's hair, her head in his lap. He scanned the lakeside, looking for the water birds, but none settled on the water. The sounds of the night had driven them off. Tears rolled down his cheeks. Home had been all he had dreamt of while at war. Screams echoed in his mind. He stroked his love's head one last time, then rested her head against the bannister post of the stairs, before standing. He moved to the side of the house and collected a shovel.



Victor wept openly, as he began to dig the first of the three graves.