Chapter Text
“It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a body-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. Nothing should be able to do that. Especially not love. I hate love.”
Neil Gaiman
Gilbert Blythe turned sixteen while sailing the vast Atlantic ocean, miles away from what once called home. All that tied him back to Avonlea were two letters. His father had written him one before he died, with instructions only for it to be read on his birthday. It was a weathered document and the edges were worn down after being tucked in his breast pocket, close to his heart, for months. But, as the warm light of the sun bounced off the cresting waves and he awoke to another day of strenuous labour, the young man slid his finger along the folded flap and read his father’s handwriting. It was jagged and inky, and Gilbert couldn’t help noticing the smudges that mirrored his own.
This day had been expected. Bash had begun his teasing as soon as he learned that Gilbert was still only fifteen. Any mention of the opposite gender would spiral onto the older man searching for the sentence that would make Blythe’s cheeks pink. He had found that any mention of a red-headed girl called Anne would do the trick. But today was a momentous day, and Bash couldn’t help but hold his tongue. Gilbert awoke to an ache bloomed in his stomach, fluttering up into his chest. He almost didn’t want to look.
Dear son,
It has been many years since I was your age, and although you may feel you are now fully grown, your whole life is still ahead of you. This day is something sacred and special, and I am deeply sorry that I cannot be there to help you decipher the words on your arm, just as my father helped me with mine. Hopefully, the girl will understand her’s before it is too late.
I loved your mother, there is no doubt about that. I still love her. However, her words weren’t mine. She realised early on that my mark belonged to another, and that I knew who she was. But Marilla Cuthbert is a stubborn woman, and she wouldn’t give up on herself or her brother. I like to imagine she has had a fulfilling life, even without me. The introduction of that wonderful girl Anne has certainly helped.
Just know that you must fight for love. It does not come easy. And as much as one would like to think the marks help untangle things, I have discovered they only tighten the knots.
Your loving father,
John Blythe
The letter was not the first thing Gilbert Blythe read that morning. On his arm were words he would never forget, even before he heard them aloud. Growing up in Avonlea where gossip spread like B.C wildfires in mid-August, Gilbert had always understood the concept of the marks. They appeared on one’s sixteenth birthday, virtually overnight, something that still puzzled him. From a scientific standpoint, they seemed magical. And that’s why - before he even read those words and before she even spoke them - he knew who they belonged to. It was rare, especially in small towns, to have already met your intended before the words appeared, yet she was special, and thus so was he. In Gilbert’s heart of hearts, he had known all along, since the moment she smacked him over the head with her slate, that he was going to marry Anne Shirley-Cuthbert.
But, here he was, in the middle of the Atlantic on a boat that wouldn’t dock back in anywhere near Charlottetown for many months. He would never tell her either way. She was still only fourteen and he didn’t want to scare her away. He was afraid that she wouldn’t believe him and he would become just like his father. And although John had said he lived a happy life, Gilbert promised himself he would never settle for anything less than Anne.
The letter was only one of many gifts Gilbert got for his birthday that year. Bash had managed to find a ripe mango and presented it tied with a ribbon. Gilbert, splitting it in two to share, had spent a good half an hour sucking out all the pulp and juice. The third arrived early, but he counted it just the same. Anne wrote a prose poem of a letter in reply to his own, waxing lines about gold, the border that was teaching her to bake, and the never-ending joy of school. Gilbert found only one word spelt wrong - stupendous.
The final present, gifted by Fate herself, was the sudden revelation that getting off at the next port, he would have enough money to pay for his and Bash’s trip back up to Charlottetown. They spent one riotous night in New York City on the way, in which Gilbert got drunk enough to momentarily forget about the fiery red braid he had tugged on before the memories overcame him worse than before. Bash, the ever-helpful friend he was, only laughed in the morning.
‘You gotta learn to hold your liquor, Blythe. Half the bar from last night now knows about the torch you carry for your dear Anne.’
Gibert had a splitting headache and couldn’t find anything to say except repeating the phrase that he said whenever she was mentioned.
‘She’s not my Anne.’ He grumbled, wincing through the pain.
Bash just chuckled, giving a knowing nod instead of stating the obvious fact that there was now empirical evidence that showed that she belonged to him, and he to her. Gilbert, who was not totally oblivious, knew that they were meant for another, but in continuing his chivalrous attempt to be more open to Anne’s progressive views of equality, did not feel that Anne would want to be referred to as his. And that was enough.
The trip to PEI left much to be desired. Bash was frustrated that Gilbert wouldn’t wise up and increased his remarks to an astounding number. Gilbert was annoyed at his friend, but also at himself and the realization that it was much more than the week-long trip to Charlottetown that kept them apart. It was many months, almost two years before her own mark would appear. Although Anne had the imagination, she did not have his ability for inner debate and self-realisation that helped him discover his own feelings quicker. Knowing and admiring Anne for what felt like a millennium, he understood her better than he would himself. She was stubborn. Love was something that must come naturally, through a mutual interest that evolved into courtship, a proposal and thus marriage. And maybe his father was right, that the knot doesn’t just untangle itself, but Gilbert Blythe would wait forever and a day for Anne Shirley Cuthbert.
Gilbert does not remember how many times he read his father’s letter that day. It must have been a least a dozen by the time the sun set. His mind buzzed with the meaning of the words. Staring down at the marks scrawled on his forearm, he knew that now was the time to accept his life and his future.
She remembers the day he returned like it was yesterday. How could she forget the way Gilbert looked at her like she was the only thing in the world. He hadn’t come back for the gold but for her. And, at that exact moment, she felt that she herself might have words that appear on someone else’s skin.
Gilbert’s mark was the only subject the Avonlea school children entertained that day. They all knew that he was slightly older, having fallen behind from going to Alberta and now spending almost a year overseas. Anne put on an air of being disinterested. All the boys had gotten a peek at the inside of his forearm, and the words quickly spread to the girls until one lunch Anne couldn’t contain herself any longer. She disregarded propriety by asking to see the mark herself. It was common knowledge that one’s mark was only to be revealed to the other sex after an established courtship. Anne, later, would argue that at that point she did not see Gilbert Blythe as a possible suitor and thus reading the words she would later speak was not, as Josie put it, a way to snatch up the only eligible bachelor in all of Avonlea. It is safe to say that Josie insulted more than Anne did that day. In fact, Gilbert was flattered, if not a bit embarrassed, by Anne’s curiosity.
It wasn't until her own birthday, that she was forced to admit that she may not dislike Gilbert Blythe as much as she once argued she had. And, Anne had to admit that her mark could have been worse, Carrots had always been a possibility. She should really be more thankful for the stars that aligned and made her finally realise that true love had always been right under her nose.