this was a kiriban written for Jaden56 of y!gallery, as thanks for some awesome support for my writing on that site. y! is an over-eighteen site, or else i'd provide a link or something, sorry.

and, this is my first ever beta'd piece! Amindaya was brilliant enough to beta this for me, and i can't express my gratitude fair enough. but, if there are any grammer mistakes, then they are purely all mine, because i'm stubborn that way. (laughs)

anyways, hope you enjoy something a bit different from my norm.

tuesday, february 27, 2007. 12:04 pm.

---

Dust rose up from the grassless fields, and I squinted against a particularly heavy cloud of the substance as I shifted the bulky bundle on my hip, adjusting the strap across my chest and moving my sleeping roll so that it settled more comfortably against my back. The others in my troop were quiet as we moved away from the truck that had dumped us here, all of us walking in unison until I broke away from the rest, heading instead towards the mess tents.

Soldiers were everywhere in various stages of dress and actions; some were returning from guard duty, and still others were resting on their down time before it was their shift. Or until orders come through, and then most of these men are going to be shot at, gunned down, littered with debris and dirt, dismembered, and dying; only the lucky few of us ever remain unscathed, living until the next batch of orders come in to send us right back into battle.

I’ve lived through three years of this shit, having enlisted when I was barely sixteen; I lied on my entrance forms, chalking my age to eighteen. The recruiting officer hadn't even blinked an eye at the skinny, youth-faced teen I'd been back then, just added his signature and acceptance stamp before a blank-faced offical came along to shuffle me out of the stuffy office and into my new career of foot soldier.

For ten years, we have been at war.

It killed my father and two oldest brothers straight off, and then when my only surviving brother turned eighteen, he rushed off and got himself killed as well. Mother died in her heart at that point, even though she stuck around for a few more years, finally dying in her sleep when I was thirteen. I stayed around the village where I grew up for a couple of weeks, until it turned into a ghost town of women and old men who would look at me and only see an able-bodied soldier, too afraid to join with the other lads who had run off months before.

So I left and drifted, until I finally ended up in the army because I was too hungry and too tired for anything else. I had believed myself to die within days. I've lasted the longest of any in my family, even though I spent more than two years as front-line fodder material, one of those unlucky few to be sent out first in every battle, dodging hell every second and seeing everyone around me fallen and maimed on all sides. Death cares not for the uniform on the body it ultimately embraces to its breast.

I used to pray. I don't bother anymore, just wondering when that bullet will come, when my luck will finally fall away.

For I must be truly lucky, having survived until the transfer off the front lines and into the mess halls. It will be rare that I see the battlefield on any regular basis if I can manage to cook decent enough. This camp is rather large, and it took a good twenty minutes to reach the first of the mess tents, and I ducked inside to search for someone in charge; he found me, a tall man with a severe edge along his jaw and nose, sharp and unforgiving.

"What's your business here, soldier?"

His voice held the same edge, one I know is more personality than authority, but I straightened and intoned, "I've been transferred to mess, sir."

"Jennings?"

I gave a brief nod and he nodded in muted assent; "You'll be stationed in Mess Four, under Hand."

"Yes'sir."

He turned away and I knew enough to duck back out and continue walking, mentally counting the mess tents until I saw the one labeled as Mess Four, and I ducked inside and had to grab a nearby man's attention; "Is Hand here?"

"Aye, he's the one with red 'air, eh? You Jenn'gs, eh?" The man's speech was halting and guttural, but I've been stationed with worse dialects, so I followed him easily enough.

"Yes."

"Ah, welc'me, aye 'elcome indeed."

I left him and approached the red-haired man who had been pointed out to me, standing there a moment before the man noticed I was there; turning from reprimanding a young boy of about fourteen, he stared at me with a questioning gaze.

"Jennings, sir, reporting."

"Ah, you then. Your bunch musta come in early, 'cause I have you scheduled for the dawn crew on the morrow."

He seemed likable enough, even as he narrowed his eyes and looked me in the face; "You a fair decent cook?"

"The best on my scout missions, sir."

This answer satisfied him into laughing, and he introduced the fourteen-year-old boy to me as his son, Pike. He pushed the kid towards me and told him to show me to my quarters.

"This way."

Pike led me from the tent and back to the living quarters, his limbs lanky as he walked with the gait of someone coming into their puberty at an awkward rate; overall, he seemed quiet and forthright, and I wondered what the hell such a young kid was doing in the army, even if he's serving under his dad. I can see the resemblance in the face, even though he doesn't have the dark red hair of his father; instead, it is a dusty-blonde color that reminded me of dirty hay already gone to seed.

We finally came to one of the smaller tents, ducking inside and seeing that the only other occupant was sprawled on a sleeping mat, deep snores coming from the inert form.

Pike shoved against the guy's leg and demanded, "¡Oi, despiértele asno perezoso!"

I blinked at the unexpected Spanish, but was better prepared when Pike again ordered, "Despierta, Fin."

"Salgo, estoy dormido." The voice was thick with sleep, and Pike snorted and shoved his foot into a hip, causing the guy to make an 'oomph' noise as he curled away and snarled something I dared never to repeat. Ever.

"Aye, y tu. Pero...you awake yet, Fin?"

The guy sat up and glared at Pike before seeming to notice that I was crouched down by the entrance, and his face relaxed into something akin to curiosity. "You Jennings, then?"

I nodded, and he grunted, scratching his chest through the thin undershirt we all wear beneath our uniforms, and Pike spoke a breezy comment as he departed, something in Spanish that I wasn't able to catch. The guy laughed despite his angry expression, ruffling his bristled hair against the palm of his hand as he again looked at me.

"You speak English, I take it?"

"Don't we all?"

He again laughed, a sound that almost grated my nerves but just barely; "Most of us, at any rate, si? The last fellow had been German, no habla Inglés. I speak good, no?"

"Fair enough."

He once again laughed, and I let him fall back into sleep as I went about setting up my sleep roll, untying the cords and rolling it out onto the rough ground, stretching out in my uniform and staring up at the tent's ceiling. I can live with this.

--- --- ---

Pike and Hand are locals around here, stationed to this base for as long as it has been here, and it was from Pike that I learned of the legend surrounding the huge Elm tree standing by its lonesome about half a click from the base in the middle of the field; it’s a strong focal point, and that made me wonder why it was so avidly deserted.

Supposedly, there is the ghost of a man out there—a noble, is what Pike whispered to me as we worked side-by-side kneading dough.

“I’ve seen ‘im out there before, this time that a group of us boys dared each other to sneak out and meet up out at the tree, to see if it were true. Only me and two others showed up, and one of them went home right away. Me and Billy though, we saw the man, we heard him sighing like the wind even though nothin’ was blowin’.”

“But who is he?”

The kid shrugged one shoulder, saying, “Nobody really knows, but they all say that he’s this noble guy who hunged himself out there one day, long before I was ever born. The family used to own the town and all this land and all, but when the noble hunged himself, nobody was left because he murdered his own uncle.”

“Murdered?”

“Yeah, cut him open from throat to bowel and the scullery maid who emptied the shit pots found him and screamed herself all into a faint.”

I whistled softly in appreciation and he nodded in agreement before ducking his head and pretending to be feverishly busy as his father glanced in his direction; the two appear to have a severe relationship, but I can interpret the warmth that exists in their heated interactions.

“There weren’t any ghosts where I grew up; I should go see on my down time some night, huh?”

Pike shook his head; “Nu-uh! He was scary! He murdered his uncle; I bet he could murder you too, if he wanted!”

“I doubt it, ghosts don’t scare me none, it’s peoples I always worry about. Like those bastards shooting at us, ne?”

He laughed, but our talking was cut short as we continued on with our separate tasks, leaving the dough to rise while we finished up the million and one other things that are needed to be done before the soldiers start trickling in for the morning meal.

But maybe I should go see about this ghost; who ever gets the chance to see one? And then maybe the thought of dying wouldn’t be quite as bleak.

--- --- ---

Fin called me all sorts of names, in English and Español, but I didn’t let it bother me any as I set out for the tree on one of the nights we had off without early morning detail the very next day; I’ve been here about two weeks already, settling into routine and earning my keep through my skills. I got the feeling that Hand had initially expected me to be a bit sub-standard, but I’m hard-working and I get the job done, so he hasn't had much reason to give me any grief.

The further out I got from the base, the quieter it got, until I couldn’t even hear the usual crickets in the silence of wind rustling the grass. Well, it’s certainly a bit spookier out here than one would accept as normal. There may have been a thread of truth to the rumors, at any rate, but I don’t really believe that a whole lot is going to come out of my sitting out here for a few hours in the dark.

The stars were out but the moon was new, cutting visibility quite a bit, and I stumbled over roots in the ground, hitting grass and dirt with a painful ‘whump’ and wincing as I pushed myself back to my feet, brushing grit from my palms and chiding myself at being careless. I felt around the base of the tree, finally settling down onto a relatively smooth patch of ground, my arms wrapped around my knees as I resolved myself in waiting.

---

Something woke me, causing me to jerk from the semi-doze I’d slipped into about an hour earlier. I strained my trained ears for the noise that had startled me; the wind, it was sighing nearby. Except that the rhythm of it was irregular, far too much so for it to be just the wind.

“Hello?”

The air swallowed up my firm word, darkness poking at me from every direction and making shapes crawl about and coil against the sensors in my eyeballs, trying to make me see people and monsters where there were none. One doesn’t spend nights on guard patrol to never experience the tricks one’s mind and body can play on him, so I knew to ignore the shapes I saw and feel with my soldier’s intuition. And I don’t feel alone out here.

Another long sigh.

And how could anyone have ever found this scary? All I feel is so…filled with regret and sorrow.

“Who’s out there?”

I blinked, and there was a man. Standing about eight or nine feet to my left, turned as if I had startled him with my presence.

Oh sure, I startled him.

He looked solid enough, down to his rough-looking trousers that had holes worn through with use and age, dirt-yellowed work shirt, and dull black boots on his feet; a shock of hair tumbled down over his eyes, and he pushed it out of the way, staring at me with pale eyes that made my flesh crawl. If he was a noble in life, then I’m a prince; if anything, he looks like a groundskeeper to a noble family, or some stable hand to be kept out of sight of visitors. But those eyes— they're white and they cut right through me.

“A soldier….” His voice floated in and out of reality, chilling me enough that the hairs on my entire body all stood at attention, causing me to shiver with discomfort.

But my voice came out stronger than I felt; “Who are you?”

He looked away from me, his movements fluid and hard to follow, as if he was fluctuating the very material of his reality without meaning to; “I don’t know….”

A very long sigh, and I had to fight back unexpected tears, affected by the depths of his sadness; it overcame my fear of him, leaving me wanting to offer comfort but not knowing how. How can anyone offer comfort to a dead being? Why should they be able to be comforted…what happens to us once we've died?

“I’m…I’m Dillon.”

My voice was shaky, and he seemed to remember me again, turning and staring, his hair falling into his eyes and blocking our locked gaze; with the break in contact, he blinked from view, leaving me sitting all alone beneath a lonely Elm tree. Whoever he was, he most certainly was not a noble.

--- --- ---

“You see ‘im?” Pike’s whisper was low enough that Fin, working just behind us, had no idea what we were talking about.

“Yeah.”

The kid’s eyes grew large, almost disbelieving but willing to put faith in me. “And?”

My fingers were quick as I sliced up the peeled potatoes he handed over to me, the vegetables still wet from the dunk they’d taken into a grungy bin of water; “And he’s no nobleman.”

“Huh?”

“Noblemen don’t wear servant clothing.”

"You seen 'is cloth'ns?"

I nodded and his eyes widened; "We jes seen a misty shape, but you seen him?"

"Oi, wha's with all the fisper'fisperin'? You two got a secret from ol' Fin?" My bunk mate put his head in between us, looking interested in what we were whispering about; Pike put a damp finger on the man's forehead and pushed him away, grinning a tolerant smile for the surprisingly likable fellow.

"Jennings saw the Nobleman."

"He ain't a nobleman, he's a servant of a noble...or something. Stable boy, I bet, a good one but too rough for visitors to see."

"¿El fantasma¿El quién suspiros?"

"Si, the one who sighs."

Fin whistled lowly in appreciation, mentally taking back all those nasty curses he'd fired off at me when I'd told him about my plan in the first place. "You must have a big death wish, lad."

"Aye, am I not in this war?"

My light comment caused the three of us to break into laughter, until Hand glanced in our direction and we quieted, our heads lowering as one as we quickly got back into the pose of working hard. Hand may be a likable fellow, but he's hard ass to put our noses to the grind. At least he doesn't hit those beneath him, like some of those in the other mess tents. I must have been born lucky, to be placed as I was.

Be that as it may, my thoughts never strayed far from el quién suspiros. The one who sighs...

--- --- ---

A slightly chilled wind played at the strands of my hair as I tucked my fingers underneath my arms for warmth; not all of the shivers running down my back came from the temperature, not beneath this large tree in the early hours of the morn. Even while walking out here, I had to question my reasons for returning; the best I could come up with was this vague desire to see him again, to know his story. Because I instinctively understand that he must have some sort of story, some reason as to why he haunts this field, why he haunts this specific tree.

I wonder if he died out here, if he met with some sort of tragedy.

Mayhap he was buried beneath the tree, long enough ago that the occurrence has long slipped the minds of those left living, if they ever knew to begin with. One doesn't drift from place to place without coming to understand the basic cruel nature that is humanity itself; I myself experianced brushes with thieves and rogues, coming close to death by an outlaw's hands more than once in my lifetime. Mayhap this man suffered a fated encounter with some fiend, slain here beneath the tree and left lying where he fell.

Or maybe I absorbed far too many ghost tales and legends in my travels. Tales of ghostly hauntings of castles, of widowed noble ladies who continue to walk cemeteries or manor halls, of ill-fated instances where someone died without rest, their soul forced to wander the planes of this Earth for all time.

The man certainly appeared sad enough to harbor some secret that might keep him here, tied to this place instead of lying at rest. Perhaps he pines for some unknown lady, her name lost in time, while he remains here, stuck yearning for her. There is a romantic deep inside of me that wishes for this to be so, even though a great sadness is there as well, thinking of the pain such an instance would cause.

Huddled against the broad base of the tree, I kept my eyes open and alert, shivering slightly with a clenched jaw, trying desperately to appear calmer and...warmer...than I truly felt. I was not there long before that sigh came with the wind, low and sorrowful, causing me to forget my discomforts as that foreign sadness once more gripped my chest.

"Are you here?"

My voice fell thin against the persisting darkness, my ears straining for some sort of response... And to my surprise, the man appeared just before me, crouched down, and staring straight into my eyes; I yelped and leapt backwards, duly forgetting the fact that my back was already to the tree and limiting my immediate range of motion.

"You again..."

I held still as he breathed words towards me, his hair moving in a different tune than the wind blowing against mine, his clothing rippling by that unseen wind that I had witnessed previously. Moving forwards, his image flickered like a candle caught by a gentle gust, my eyes widening as he advanced upon me until his ghostly form was mere inches from mine; those pale eyes held mine and seemed to nearly see into my very soul.

"A soldier."

Audibly gulping, I replied, "Y-yes, I'm a...a soldier."

Staring for a few moments more with those unblinking eyes, he pulled back several inches and voiced, "Killers and murderers. You don't have the soul of a soldier in you. But there is cruelness there that..." His words drifted off as he pulled back completely, his head cocked as he stared at me some more, sadness nearly palatable.

Gathering my courage, I wet my lips and asked, "Were you killed by a...a soldier?"

A frown pulled his brows together; "I do not know. But this wound...it hurts...for so long, it has pained me..."

Startled, my eyes left his and took in the sight of his hand against his stomach, which appeared to have a growing stain...even as I watched, horrified, I saw the ghostly apparition bleeding from a gory hole in his abdomen, blood dripping down his fingers and disappearing into the grass, seemingly as real and painful as any of the deathly wounds I have witnessed over the years.

Sure that my face was drawn in shock, I couldn't help but to let out an appalled, "Where did such a wound come from?"

At this, his visage contorted into a rare form of anger; "Haven't I told you that I do not know?! Foul beast of you, soldier."

A hot blush exploded down my cheeks, for reasons I couldn't quite fathom...there's a guilt wrestling deep in my guts, a guilt that seemed to strengthen the longer I stared at his translucent, bleeding form. A guilt that magnified when I saw the tears on his face, the sheer heartbreak that erupted unchecked, a wrenching sob heard echoing all about the two of us.

"Why must I hurt so? There is this constant pain, and it...it centers here..."

Fingers clasped at that ragged shirt, a fist forming just over his chest...over his heart...as more gasping sobs rose all around me, seeming to pin me down and take out their grief upon my frozen body.

I couldn't take any more; springing to my feet, I ran blindly through the spot where I'd last known his form to be, gasping at the frigid wall of air I encountered before I stumbled clear of it, the sobs ceasing the moment I'd done so. Panting, my legs shaking and every hair on my body standing at attention, I listened.

And waited.

A low sigh blew through the leaves of the tree, and I took to my heels, running like a scamp through the dark field, never pausing until within the confines of the camp, human presence enough to calm my gait, if not my jumping nerves. I was still jumpy when I crouched down into the tent I share with Fin, his grumbling snores enough to pacify my state enough that I relaxed into an uneasy sleep, huddled down in my bedroll and seeing images of unblinking pale eyes.

---

Pale eyes turned into ones of midnight blue, their tainted color one of comfort when they sparkled with mischief, a smile to match upon lips of palest rose. A face in which the features were the rough cut of the poorest of working class, the skin tinted by the sun and hard labor, framed by a messy shock of sun-lightened brown hair.

He was always messy, from his looks to his speech, but there was never a more gentle touch than his.

Gentle with the horses, even those with the most spit-fire within, gentle when handling their reins and gear, brushing down their coats when they were returned to their stables, worn out after a hard day's training.

Those calloused fingers were always gentle upon skin, upon heated flesh, when thighs and torsos were pressed together in heated interactions, when teeth found purchase upon the curve of one's collar bone. Fingers wrapped around the most heated of body organs, gentle and firm as they pumped, and life was never better than when those fingers were on him.

There was never any sweeter sensation than when the rough wood of stable flooring met against a bared back, splinters experienced and ignored as hips ground together, as pants filled their universe, and nothing else mattered but those few blessed moments where they forgot everything else.

His eyes were beautiful, even when they cried tears of the cruelest variety.

---

Gasping awake, I fought against the strangling hold of my bedroll around my person, hearing a vaguely sleepy voice cursing in Spanish before it finally switched to thick English, "Et'chu do'on, s'early n'merde."

Sweat caused my underthings to lay as if painted against my skin, my groin aching as it strained because of the pleasurable images and then deflated with startling swiftness when it seemed to recall that it was indeed still attached to my frightened person, my entire body shuddering in the aftermath of the dream I had just experienced.

"Nightmare."

My breaths were little more than hyperventilating pants, and I only realized that I should calm down when my lips began to tingle, signaling my lack of control over my breathing. Gulping slowly, I pushed my way upright, hanging my head down towards my knees as I clutched at my bedroll.

"Eh? Nigh'mre? Ngh...s'all? Ever'one have nigh'mare, we're in a war, man."

Fin groaned and flopped onto his side, shuffling about and beginning to snore soon thereafter, telling of his descent back into sleep. If only all of us could be so lucky. As it was, I lay awake for hours, afraid and unwilling to close my eyes.

I don't want to experience that dream again. Ever.

--- --- ---

Laughter, deep and hearty and just for me, those dark eyes holding mine before he turned and dashed into the trees, the baritone call of, "Catch me if you can!" trailing in the silence of his wake.

Amusement curved across the aristocratic mouth set into my face, my fingers tucking back an errant strand of the rich honey-colored hair I'd inherited from my blue-blooded but dead mother; unable to help myself, I allowed myself the rarity of laughing with abandon, something that my uncle had beaten from me before I was old enough to walk, and I took up a run, dashing into the trees to catch up with my lover.

And gave an ungainly shriek when lithe arms shot from behind a clump of beech trees, pulling me against the form I would know was his in the darkest of nights; lips fell against mine and the world fell away. Until, that is, I broke contact and easily bowled him into the leaf-covered floor beneath our feet, dropping down to roll in the scent of the Earth as we pleasured ourselves, harboring the knowledge that we owned a secret desire, an eternal love.

For I did love my Horse Groom, my man sprawled here in the dirt and arcing up for my touch.

I loved Ashton.

--- --- ---

For the fourth night in a row, I woke up gasping, fighting my bedding and raging erection that faded just as quickly as I regained consciousness, never lasting long enough to do more than leave me trembling with some unspoken need and despair.

This tangible grief remained even during the waking hours of the day, etching lines around my eyes and dark bruises against my cheekbones, enough that those I work with wonder if I'm slowly going mad. I know Fin has talked to Pike, at least, about how I cry out during the night and come awake as if I'd been plunged beneath the icy waters of a frozen river, how my nightmares appear to be steadily growing worse for me.

These...nightmares...they seem so real to me, so very tangible yet beyond my ken. As if...as if I was there, but that I am not that person any longer.

A week of real dreams and nightmares was taking its toll on me; I felt like I was shrinking, unable to eat, mechanically going about my job without any thoughts other than those that always linger with me these days.

This man...this Ashton...is the one who sighs, I am sure of it.

Somehow, he has managed to infect me, to force me to see these images that I no longer wish to remember. I saw so many embraces, so many touches and loving words, and I feel a gnawing guilt at every image. I experience the guilt that I know doesn't belong to me, but to the man through whose eyes I see, this man whose thoughts and will overtake my own when I am immersed within these dreams.

This noble man whose uncle beat him often enough that I have seen frequent images of Ashton caressing bruises and lashes with soft kindness, this noble man who rarely allowed himself to laugh, even when alone with his Ashton, who seemed to laugh enough for the both of them.

I see these people in my head, and I want them to leave! To leave me in peace, to let alone this simple soldier boy; I am Dillon Jennings, mess cook and orphaned because of this hellish war. I am a soldier, a vagabond with a career in killing people before they can kill me.

I am not this...this...Harris fellow.

Harris...yes, that was his name, this man whose body I seem to possess during my dreams. Ashton's noble lover.

--- --- ---

Anger kept me warm and unshivering as I stood beside the tree, my voice loud and carrying, "I don't care who you are, but leave me the hell alone! Do you hear me? Leave me the hell alone!"

There was only silence, and I snarled; "Ashton."

Static seemed to crackle along my back teeth and inside my ear canals, causing me to wince even as I became aware of the sense of not being alone.

"Show yourself, you bleeding coward!"

Again, those pale eyes visualized mere inches from mine, ripping an involuntary reaction of being startled from me before I remembered my anger; "I hate you, what have you done to me?!"

Almost as if he hadn't heard, his flickering voice asked, "What was that word? What name did you utter?"

Gnashing teeth in my rage, I snapped, "Ashton."

It was only the unveiled fear in those eyes that made me regain some of my calm, seeing how frightened he'd just become of me, his mouth twisted with some unrecognizable emotion.

And then he was gone, the sense of a being...was gone. Not even the sighing remained.

--- --- ---

"I have a surprise for you, if you behave." Husky whispers that promised everything, the words rough with seeming passion as they were pressed against a sunburnt ear.

"You cann'it give't me now?"

The words were ever hopeful, and I couldn't help but chuckle, taking a moment to press a soft kiss to a familiar temple.

"No, not now. Tonight. You know where to meet me."

-

My lower back aches on the left side from Uncle's blade, where he slid it into my flesh, knowing just where to stab and not kill. No, he just wished to inflict pain and ailment upon me, his cruelty holding firm,as always.

I know the extent of that cruelty, for I have been trained in the art of his torture methods, forced to put pain to those from which he wished to gain information or agreements. Sickening acts that I have freely committed, tainting my soul every day, my sleep restless except for those few blessed moments where I am wrapped in Ashton's embrace, when I allow his love to free me from my numerous sins. If only for a moment.

But sometimes, there are sins one can never repay. Such as being born.

If I had died during birth, then I would not be here now, fighting the pain of my back, or the pain in my gut from...

Ashton was early, just as I had known he would be. His eyes lit up as he saw me already in place beneath 'our' tree, the tree we used to play upon as children, the tree we often met under as lovers.

My dearest Ashton...

Those rough fingers found my cheeks as he pulled my face in for a heated kiss, tongue slipping in with the familiarity I had granted to him so long ago. My arms wanted nothing more than to crush his form against mine, to somehow absorb him into myself and never be apart again.

Instead, I kissed him with unbridled passion.

He jerked when the blade met his belly, going rigid in my arms before he stumbled backwards, my hand limp as it fell from the handle of my dagger, the one my Father had left to me when he died not long after my mother left this world.

My face dry, I watched as he stared with open betrayal, tears welling up and spilling over as he struggled to speak around the viscous fluid rapidly collecting in his throat; "Yo-yo'r unc-"

My uncle did this to us, yes, and it was only when I said nothing that a shaky smile lit against the grimace of pain, your body continuing to slump downwards as your strength bled away from your wound.

You died at my feet.

-

I might have saved my lover from my uncle, but I had not saved myself.

Hours of the torture techniques I knew so well were turned against me, ripping screams and blood from my body until I felt that I had none more to give, and even then, I was given no respite. But my uncle failed to estimate my resolve when he finally allowed me to heal, having decided that I was broken into the obedient creature he had always believed me to be until he'd discovered the trysts.

Almost too easily, I found myself in his rooms during the darkest moments of the night, expressionless as I slit him from bowels to chin, taking no pleasure in killing him.

There was no pleasure to be found in my life, not anymore.

This was why I took painstaking care while sitting up on a tree branch, knotting the rope with the nimble fingers of experience before slipping the noose over my head, eyes empty to the early morning sunrise as I allowed my body to fall sideways. The last thoughts I had were those of wishing for some form of forgiveness for my greatest of sins before my neck snapped.

And the body of a young nobleman swayed with the momentum of the fall that had killed him, even as screams were heard in a certain family manor, the chambermaid screaming before she fell into a faint.

--- --- ---

Fingers clawed at a bared throat, sure that the raw scratching of rope could still be felt, the blind terror gripping my mind until I realized that I was Dillon, while a cursing man began throwing his boots at my head for waking him again.

Still caught in the clutches of the memory, I scrambled from my bed and tugged on boots, stumbling from the tent, and squinting from the sun, making my way for the bog, hoping to calm myself with the mundane act of relieving my bladder.

Except my body trembled too much for me to do anything but continue past it, walking out of camp, knowing exactly where I was going but unable to stop myself.

Tears scalded my cheeks as all these foreign emotions clawed at my chest and throat, as if some extrinsic being had crawled down there and was now trying to come back up; these emotions aren't mine, but they're mine. Some part of me acknowledges ownership to these feelings and emotions, to these...memories.

I...I'm Harris. Somehow, that man and myself are one and the same...

I never saw the soldier hiding in the grass; barely registered the rapport that signaled the firing of his rifle. It was only when I was thrown to the ground from the force of the bullet eating through my side did I realize that I'd been shot, surprise the only coherent feeling in my mind.

This wasn't supposed to happen—I was going to get answers from Ashton, I was going to tell him who I was...I was going to explain.

Crouched footsteps and a shadow fell over me before another bullet took all thought away from me.

--- --- ---

A pale man stood uncertainly underneath a tree, caught in a strange moment of the past, seeing someone he could almost remember. His vague memories of the man standing some distance away were tinged with both pleasure and pain, causing him to hesitate upon deciding whether to greet this new stranger.

He certainly seemed familiar, with his long blonde hair and neat clothing...there was a mottled look about his neck, a dark bruising he could see even from here.

"Ashton..."

If ghosts had hearts, then his just flipped.

"My Ashton..."

Tentative steps forward brought him closer to this man who called his name, the name he knew was his just from the longing the voice barely held in check. He knew that voice, even if the tone of severe regret was foreign to his ears.

"Ashton..."

"I forgive you."

He was compelled to speak this truth, seeing the blonde-haired man's face duck out of sight before pulling upright once more, tears shimmering in pale eyes that he knew were colored the sandy-brown of a fine horse; he knew the color of those eyes, just as he knew the color of the hair that was swept from the face.

"I love you, Ashton."

Those words were enough to remove any barrier of hesitancy from him, and he rushed forward and crashed into a solid-enough body, his own tears roughening up his voice, "Harris."

Yes, that was this man's name; Harris was the man he loved.

The two embraced, even as the body of an orphaned soldier grew cool amongst the tall grasses of a field.

--- --- ---

Bare feet pounded dusty earth, shrieks of young laughter ringing through the air as two teens raced each other to the river, home-made fishing rods strapped to their shirt-less backs; their home was carefree, far from a country still caught in the ravages of war, even nearly a hundred years after its beginnings. They knew nothing of soldiers or camps or sighing trees.

Midnight blue eyes caught the brown eyes of his brother, and teeth flashed in the early-morning sun. True, they might have been brothers, born to the same mother and father, but they were aware that their souls were somehow meant to remain together.

Brothers they might have been, but lovers they would always be. Their souls had fought hard for this chance at peace, and the brothers were blessed enough to take it.

Hands clasped together, as should be, the brothers raced to the water's edge, laughing with the freedom that only those meant to be soul mates seem to possess.

---

A/N: yes, the ending piece happens over fifty years after the death of Dillon. (shrugs)

hope you enjoyed it, readers! thank you very much.