Archive of Our Own

[Letters stored in THE LIBRARY’s archive under the file ‘J&H’. The contributor’s name on the records is water-damaged, only a faded ‘J—Anderson’ remains. The yellowed papers carry the scent of an old drawer’s varnish and the scars of a clenched fist and saline droplets.]

***

19th-June-1915

 J,

I’m very likely the last person you wish to hear from. Knowing you and that temper of yours, this letter has remained unopened, and will continue to be so for a while. But I also know that you wouldn't rid yourself of it so hastily.  So, I suppose this is for when you eventually open it.

 

I’ve had a lot of time to think since our…farewell. In my idle moments, my mind is drawn back to that night, especially back to what I said. I realise that I owe you an apology. I didn’t mean half the things I said to you. I don’t even know what possessed me to say such things. When those memories resurface, all I feel is guilt. I’m sorry, J. I truly am. I hurt you that night (though in truth, your words weren’t exactly harmless either); when you stormed out, I should have stormed after you. Maybe then, you could have sent me off to war with a smile instead of a cold glare.

 

You needn’t forgive me, J. I’m entirely undeserving of it. You are, and always will be, a good friend, especially to someone as bull-headed as I am.

Yours, H

***

20th-July-1915

Dearest J,

I don’t quite know what possesses me to keep writing. Like I said in my last letter, you won’t open these very quickly - though on second thought you probably haven’t read the first letter even now.

 

Despite our friendship hanging by tenterhooks, and me being a channel away, it seems your presence never truly leaves me. Even now, as I lay awake and dawn barely breaks over the horizon, I can hear the bird calls we memorised as youths. I mentally point out the chirping choruses that you favour, imagining you are beside me and we are children again. I remember the times I would sneak away to meet you in the field behind your house. We would fall asleep under the quiet gaze of the stars and wake to morning’s clamour. Now, I wake to the muddy walls of the dugout.

 

I hope you are well, that things aren’t as bad in merry ol’ England as they are out here. I jest, everything is fine. Take care.

Yours, H

***

21st-August-1915

Dearest J,

The summers here are humid, accompanied by sudden bouts of rain - not unlike England in that aspect. You once said you were born during a storm so you would rather live in a world of endless downpours than one of ceaseless sun. I laughed then; I still laugh when I think about it. If you could only see the torrents that fall from the sky here, you would eat your words.

 

A terrifically mighty shower is battering the room I’m staying in, and I write this as a gale shudders the window panes. But the storm isn't unnerving in the least. It reminds me of home, and ultimately, of you.

 

I hope you are well. Send my love to your sisters, especially to Jane. It is a shame I could not come to her wedding, congratulate the new bride for me, will you?

Yours, H

***

[This letter is splattered with a brownish liquid, the handwriting barely legible, rocking back and forth like its writer at the time this was written. Some of the writing has been censored by an unsteady, hungover hand. Only time has slightly worn away the ink.]

9th-November-1915

J,

Whiskey. It's real odd. It feels like fire on your tongue and hot coals down your throat, torturing you as you drink. After a few glasses, you hardly feel a thing, or think of anything. You learn to relish that scalding pain, because you know that you won’t be able to think of anything afterwards. You are left in a drunken haze. I feel I have been in that haze for too long, J. I’m starting to forget how you look when you smile. I always thought it inconceivable. Perhaps it’s been too long since we saw each other. I used to fall asleep to the thought of you safe in London. Now, I cannot fall asleep, for fear of hearing their screams. I used to be gently woken by the muddy ceiling, deep brown like your eyes. Now, I am wrenched from fitful unconsciousness to the image of their pale faces. Bodies strewn limply across oceans of blood and viscera. Although your face is almost foreign to me now, the part of me unplagued by unnamed faces is occupied only with thoughts of you. Even if I am doomed to forget what you look like, my thoughts will only ever be of you.

Yours, H

***

[The following letter carries the most scars. It is a battlefield of creases and water marks.]

11th-December-1915

My dearest, J,

I have yet to apologise for my last letter. I feel that I haven’t been myself these past few weeks. You are the cause of that.

There’s a quote you adore: something along the lines of ‘we are what dreams are made of, our lives end with sleep’. I never quite understood why you liked it; I always used to sigh when you would recite such passages. I miss it dearly now.

 

If I could, I would listen to your drivel for the rest of my life. What I mean to say, my dear J, is that I miss you. Wholeheartedly. You bring out the parts of me that I hate and love most. I can only be myself when I’m with you.

I’m terrified of how this will change things. But this could be my one chance. I confess, that I have always

 

[The letter ends there. The long-awaited words had surfaced but remain unspoken. Silent as the dead.]