The Reckoning
Sometimes Nicholas cries, deep in the night when it's cold and silent, wrapping around his grief, holding it close inside, the pain almost too much to bear. He wants to die, that's all; he just wants to give in, lie down in the mud and the cold and let his life slip away, no pain, no torment, just an easy slide into something more gentle and soothing. He welcomes sleep, hoping it will be the final, long rest.
But each morning he wakes, and as he forces open his tired, gritty eyes, he wants to cry all over again. Cry for all the lost chances and all the lost hope. Cry for Jack, who is waiting for him.
He thinks that maybe God is laughing at him, watching his futile efforts to end his life, letting him almost succeed before reaching down and plucking him back to safety. He has earned a reputation amongst the rest of this sorry band of soldiers as lucky, reckless and blessed. He takes chances that would kill other people in the blink of an eye, and comes back unscathed, a grim smile on his face, and an age of hurt in his eyes.
He's none of these things; well maybe the second, to a certain extent. If he was lucky and blessed then he would still have Jack, and he wouldn't be here, plodding through an endless sea of mud and filth, stinking of blood and death, and wishing he could die. He would be at home, in Abingdon, with Jack, lying together watching the sky.
Sometimes he thinks Jack is very near, that he could reach out and pierce that thin veil separating the living from the dead, and he knows that if he could just do that, he would feel Jack's hand, warm against his own, and he would take that final step into the light.
But it never happens, and each day is just a repeat of the previous one, and the one before that, and the one before that, never ending and desperate. More blood, more filth - and watching young men die in front of him, and actually feeling jealous because they have found a peace which eludes Nicholas.
So when it does finally happen, he doesn't immediately recognise it for what it is. There's a strange pain in his chest and he glances down to see blood blooming across his shirt, a hole where his heart should be. He hears faint noises, and realises that his fellow soldiers are crying out their shock at something; he tries to raise his head to see what has caused them so much distress, but suddenly it seems to be far too much effort, and he drops to his knees in the mud.
There is a moment when he almost understands what has happened, almost feels pain, but then it passes as the noise around him diffuses, becomes fainter, and he hears a voice; a voice he has missed and longed to hear again.
"There you are," it says, and he feels a warm, calloused hand take his. "I've been waiting..."
The End
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