All’s Fair
in Love and War
My
sputtering tallow candle cast an uncertain light over the letter clutched in my
hand. Guilt gnawed distantly at my insides as I held the paper before me, but I
pushed it away. Tilting my candle so as to dispel the shadows that crept onto
the page, I brushed all other thoughts aside, and began to read the letter that
was not mine.
Dearest
Tristan,
I thank God
for every letter I receive from you – nothing is of more relief than the
assurance that you may yet return to me. How are the men? There has been no
word here for a long time. Your letters are, of late, the only news I have, and
renew my constant hope that the day draws nearer that I shall see you again,
brave soldier – alive and well, and safe on our home shores once more.
Laurel’s words sprung from the page
and danced through the shadows around me, bringing them to life. If I closed my
eyes, I could see her; touch her; hold her. I could taste her lips, tempered
with the bittersweet memory of that one stolen kiss… For a brief moment, I
could almost imagine she was writing to me.
I could never forgive Tristan for sweeping
Laurel off her feet right before my eyes. Every time I saw her slender frame
wrapped in his arms, radiating with that perfect, inexplicable light, I burned
with jealousy. She was breathtaking; the fulfilment of my deepest dreams and
desires. And she was his.
My mind suddenly wandered, unbidden,
to last night – the night I waved Tristan goodbye. We both knew it would be a
dangerous patrol. It would risk exposure during the day – exposure to both the
relentless, unforgiving expanses of endless sand and sunburnt stone, and to equally
relentless, unforgiving enemy fire. But there were no alternatives. Lives would
be lost, I knew, but a good leader knows when to sacrifice a few for the good
of many. Laurel told me that, once – via Tristan, in one of her letters. It
stung bitterly that she wouldn’t write to me personally. Often, at night, with
nothing to keep the shadows at bay, my darkest, most twisted thoughts crept
from their lairs and overtook my body with envy. ‘If only’, they taunted, their
voices sickly sweet, ‘If only Tristan was out of your way’…
At this, I shook my head violently, shaking
myself into the present, and re-immersed myself in Laurel’s words.
All is well
at home, save for your absence. Ma is recovering steadily from her fall –
praise the Lord! Winter has come – it is bitterly cold – but my job holds
steady, and should until at least next year. My nightmares have not ceased – I
dream more often of your death than I do of your return – but my sister is
always here to comfort me, and to remind me that upon your return, you and I
shall be married. Married – it is still the sweetest and strangest thing to
say!
Her words jolted through me, snapping
me back to the hellish reality in which I existed. The light that had burned
inside me as I read her words was extinguished as my mind registered the truth:
I was here, in the dark, alone. And she would never be mine…
My candle flickered listlessly, barely
keeping the dark at bay. Again, I couldn’t help but think back to last night. I
had gazed at the unforgiving, endless sand, its menace untamed by the shadows
of night, and fixed my sights on the five figures slinking away, soon to be
engulfed by darkness. I recalled my sense of triumph as the silhouette on the
left turned to wave at me, before he melded into the gloom. Right now, I
couldn’t help but feel uneasy at the memory.
A drop of wax fell from my feeble stub
onto the letter like a single teardrop, calling me back to the present. The
darkness crept further, licking hungrily at the corners of the letter, my
waning candle struggling to repel it. Tristan’s silhouette flickered in and out
of the shadows that never faded from the corners of my consciousness.
I took a deep breath to steady myself,
bidding my hands to stop shaking, and glanced back to the letter. The words
tumbled over themselves before my eyes, nonsensical and incomprehensible as the
molten streaks that ran down the side of my tallow candle, and of the next few
paragraphs I took in very little. So it was, that when I reached the final
passage, I found myself reading it over a further three times before
understanding finally dawned.
Brave soldier, before I post this letter, there is one final piece
of news which I must impart. I pray that it does not change your feelings for
me, or your hopes for our future. I am six months pregnant with your child. I
ought to have told you sooner, I know, but please forgive me – I was scared. I
can put it off no longer. I must share my secret joy in hopes it will sustain
you too, and see us both through this terrible war. We both knew we were rash,
that night before you left, and we have not been proven wrong. I do not regret
it, though. I hope the child has your eyes.
“Oh God”.
Only now
did my actions of last night fall piece by piece into their terrible place. I
had – fully knowingly – sent my best friend to his grave. And for what? It made
me sick to my stomach to think of it. Was it on my conscience that he would now
never see his child? I found myself hoping, with all my heart, that I should
see him again, alive and well – for not only my sake, but for that of Laurel
and her unborn child.
“Oh God”. What
had I done?
It was then
that the messenger arrived. He stood, panting, filthy, and exhausted, in the
struggling light of my weakening candle stub. “The patrol”, he gasped. My head
snapped up.
“Yes?” I
demanded. “What of them?”
He
hesitated, seemingly unsure of how to proceed.
“Go on”.
“We lost
them all, Corporal. Encountered enemy fire at sunrise. They stood no chance”.
I dropped
the candle and it clattered to the ground, its flame instantly extinguished in
the godforsaken sand. My world spun before me; my ears filled with unuttered
screams and the harsh assault of gunfire. I swore I heard a newborn’s cry as
the shadows rushed forward, uninhibited now, and engulfed me.
