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Schofield twitched as the radiant ray of sun basked him in it. He slowly opened his eyes. Dark and blue and determined. He found himself sat cross-legged, his back leaned against an old, dying oak tree, hands rested on his lap. It was bright. So bright he had to squint for the sunlight blinded him. Perennials tickled his bare feet. Yellow and purple, grass of green, where the hell is my boots. He patted his own torso, realizing his jacket wasn’t there – did he discarded them without him realizing?
Is the weather supposed to be this warm?
It was 6th – 7th? – of April. Summer should be two months away.
Schofield looked around and saw nothing but an endless view of the meadow. The plain was empty, but no eerie. Except for this one, a particular tree which magically towered without anything similar as far he noticed. As if the tree existed for him only. As if, the universe wanted him there, back on the trunk.
“Have a fun time napping, I wonder?”
The tenor was familiar; intimate. Pleasant music to his ears, a dash of mischievousness combined with a wide, friendly grin.
Schofield weakly stole glances at the owner of the voice. Eyes half-lidded, heavy. The older man made a glorious attempt to smile despite his massive grogginess, silently felt blessed for having Blake’s face as the first thing he saw after a long, deep slumber. Sluggishly, Schofield lifted a hand, landed on the other man’s cheek. Still the same soft, chubby cheek the puberty didn’t seem to hit. Blake smiled at him back. Palm pressed the back of Schofield’s hand, fingers caressing Schofield’s calloused knuckles.
“More or less,” he murmured, voice hoarse, “Quite a bloody intense dream I just had.”
“Was it?” Blake gently replied, “What did you see?”
There was no immediate response.
Schofield had his eyes on every inch of Blake’s face, wholly studied him. His complexion was nothing pale, but a nice combination of golden and pink. His eyes were twinkling blue, reflecting the morning sun. His slightly wavy hair swayed in the breeze, trapped some dry leaves. Blake was… perfect, no gash or blood or dirt. The delicate curve of his lips, the mellow gaze of his eyes, they were unusually foreign. Schofield had this surreal feeling in his chest as he brought Blake’s hand on his possession, placed it on his sunken face, rested his head on the warmth of his comrade’s palm. Schofield was almost asleep.
Frazzled, his very last strength betrayed his rationale.
Blake spoke again, the tone was serene, “Sco, what happened?”
“I was…” in his tenderness, Schofield was lost. He sighed. A deep, hollow sigh. Schofield followed his impulse to put his temple on Blake’s shoulder as he began to hiss, “…running.”
“Why are you running?”
“Chased by a bloody plane,” he was nowhere near good in storytelling. Unlike Blake, who could make up any tales effortlessly, retelling them fluently as if they were true, “First, plane, second, the Huns.”
Blake was listening.
“One almost got my leg. Lucky I was quicker.”
Blake chuckled. Thick fingers brushed Schofield’s brown hair, “And then?”
“Headed toward a coal cellar, pitch black, almost dead,” he was silent for a second, “But I met this lady,” his voice softened, “She’s a France. Spoke a little English.”
“Yeah?”
“And a baby.”
“A baby,” Blake reiterated, “Ecoust?”
Schofield nodded. Forehead pressed against Blake, sank his face, “A baby girl.”
“Found a tiny little hope in the midst of helplessness, aye?” Blake teased, “You rested?”
“Unfortunately, I did,” he was unsure. Eyebrows tangled as he tried his best to compile the timeline, “A Hun soldier shot my helmet. Fell from the stairs, head first. Then – black. Might’ve lost four, five hours,” Schofield breathed in; Blake smelled like grass and daffodil. Freshly washed tunic, color olive, vanilla-scented. Which was, highly unlikely, but Schofield, at least for now, refused to comprehend.
“Glad you’re alive, though.”
Those words. Those cursed words.
Immense sorrow. Unbearable sadness. Lost. Schofield swallowed hard, painful. The trachea was burned by regret. Lungs nearly exploded for bearing apologizes. Burden, burden, burden. He remembered the barn. The neglected farmhouse. The orchard of cherries. Blake’s body.
He didn’t even have a chance to grieve. There was no time. He always lacking it. The back was crumbling. Shoulders were trembling. A hand, quivering, tried to reach the other’s neck, but it was too powerless. Blake caught Schofield’s hovering arm, brought his figure to an embrace, let him howling and weeping and mourning. His chest was soaked with tears. Hush, the younger hummed, twas fine, twas okay.
Schofield choked himself from his violent cry, “…m’ sorry.”
Blake shook his head, “Don’t be.”
“This is not real, isn’t it?” sobbing, Schofield asked.
“I really depend, Sco, are you dying?”
The question forced him to reminisce. Ruins. Bullet. Flares. Hissed across the black sky.
Run. Runrunrun.
A gunshot. Another gunshot. He ran for his life. Running blind, feet were torn apart, rubble destroyed before him, then light again, then dark again. The bloody town was silent. His heart hammering thunder. Sprint as fast as he could. Then, a bridge. Shots rang, closer than his own hitched breath. A huge leap, forty feet above the water, smashed himself into the river. The strong current washed him away. He gasped for air, kicking, arms flapping, unable to fight the stream. Coughed, resurfaced, submerged again – barely floating. Then came the roaring sound. He was panicking. Waterfall. The light flashed and gone.
Plunge pool. The universe didn’t allow him to die just yet.
He found a log and clung onto it. The calm current of the river carried him slowly. Schofield faced the pre-dawn skies. Blue and purple and silvery hint of light. The sun was peeking under the thick clouds. His hand slipped. Mouth filled with freezing water. Schofield was no longer visible below the waterline.
“I guess I am.”
Blake flicked a finger, “Merely an inch away from the Second and you’re dying.”
“I can run no further, Blake,” voice cracking. Schofield grabbed Blake’s wrist.
“I don’t ask you to, nobody told you to run all the time,” cupping his companion’s face, Blake wiped away traces of tears on Schofield’s cheek. He gently pressed his thumbs on the corner of his eyes, “You can walk or swim or crawl, but you can, not, die,” repression in every syllable, every letter, “You need to stop the attack, yeah?”
Schofield looked at Blake. Blurry. His eyes still wet, “I’m tired.”
“I’m –”
“Don’t,”
Lifeless.
“Just don’t.”
Agony. Anguish. Heartbreak.
“How am I supposed to reach the Devons without you?” Schofield desperately, rhetorically asked. He could never. Why the hell Blake had to choose him in the first place? He cussed inside his breath, “I don’t know where to go, I don’t know where I was, I – I wasn’t half as good as you, I have no maps—”
“Sco,”
“I’m scared, for fucking Christ’s sake, I’m scared—”
“Sco, Schofield, William.”
Blake’s touch tranquilized him. His hands were everywhere around Schofield’s head. On his cheek, rubbing his nape, stroking his hair. Anything to calm him down, to get him back to his senses.
“Shall I remind you how many?”
Schofield murmured, “Sixteen hundred.”
“I knew what I was picking you for,” Blake hushed him, “I always knew – you’ll always accomplish your task, you would never abandon such assignment, everything, you always managed to keep it done.”
Words, so comforting.
“You’re not through this alone, Sco,” his lips landed on Schofield’s temple, “I never truly left.”
“Keep talking, Blake…” he muttered, “Tell me where to go.”
“If you take a look around, you shall find.”
There, he was home.
But home wasn’t a place he should belong, now. Schofield had always known that he loved this man; a man should never look at his friend the way he looked at him. He was too late. It was too late now, it was too late then. Blake slowly reached the back of Schofield's head, pressed their foreheads together in sacred, solemn silence. Remorse danced with gratitude. Then, the world perished under their feet, tree, and grass and sun and wind vanished in a psychedelic vortex. It left Schofield nothing but Blake.
It was always about Blake.
“I’ll take you to my brother,” the voice echoed in the darkness, “You’ll recognize him.”
“Just like you,”
—a little older.
Schofield gasped, spitting out water.
He regained consciousness and quickly repositioned himself to keep on floating. He quickly assessed his situation; at least fractured skull and bruised limbs. Heartbroken. He needn’t another second to acknowledge he was dreaming about Blake, and the realization of Blake was no longer there hit him hard. He was stabbed to death six miles behind him. Schofield almost broke down. He was this close to giving up, to quit, to let the water drown him whole. He loosened his grip on the log, the water around him began to flat. Birds were chirping. Wind rustling the leaves. Petals of cherry blossom fell and showered him.
Petals. White. Pure.
Blake.
Schofield let go of an arm from the water and helplessly get himself a tiny piece of the thin foliole.
Blake.
He inhaled. Deep. Peaceful. Cherries. Spring. Renewal. An embodiment of the overwhelming beauty, yet tragic ephemerality. Within the brief life of these small flowers was something of the everlasting cycle. Life was short. Shorter than his own heartbeat. (“They’ll grow again when the stones rot, you’ll end up with more trees than before.”) —but it was meaningful. It was precious. It was worth the fight.
Blake.
It reminded him of Blake.
(And how he truly never left.)
- the bed you sleep forever will grow cherry tree -