okay get up, not okay lie down

She lay with her back on the cold earth, her eyes closed. Someone lay next to her, mimicking her breathing pattern. When she blinked her eyes open, she turned to find a perfect reflection of her, almost like a mirror had been put in the world between her. Margaret stared at herself. Her eyes were dull, her hair matted, and she was covered in mud. She was far from the child she used to be here.

With a sigh, she lay back down and closed her eyes. Margaret had seen enough.

“Marge, you’ve got to wake up.” Her own voice drifted through her head, as her reflection took on its own form and begin to speak exactly what half of her brain had been thinking.

“I can’t,” she murmured softly, keeping her eyes shut against the world. “They don’t want me to.”

“They?”

“Everyone keeps telling me different things. I don’t who to listen to any more.”

“You listen to God. That’s what you always do.”

“God has forgotten me. The only thing he’d tell me now is that I’m irredeemable; to just give up already.”

“So, you listen to yourself.”

“I don’t have much to say.”

“But you have much to do.”

Silence stretches between them like shadows. Margaret wasn’t sure why she came back here, to this symbolic place in the middle of nowhere. She’d be better suited going to the burnt house in the forest. That suited her better.

“Why am I still here?”

“The future.” 

“And why is that?”

“We dream every night of what the future is. We dream of the possibilities it has to offer. We’ll be with Paul again. We can show Blake the chapel. We can save the soldiers.”

“We can’t save anyone like this.”

“Maybe we can’t- alone. But we could ask someone else for help.”

“We’ve never been good at that, have we? All condemnations- all criticism- yet no one ever helped us.”

“But someone has. Someone, in this cold, dark war, has helped you. Someone you know can help again. You just have to let him.”

“He just has to let me.”

“Perhaps, in the end, you have to let yourself.”

Margaret’s eyes blinked open.

She stared, half-lidded, at the ceiling. She was in the small brick room in Ecoust, watching the sky through a hole in the roof and feeling blood pump out from her shoulder and onto the ground below. Her body count was up to four. She was sitting in a room with a dead body of her own making. She was horribly alone. And she deserved it.

She exhaled, slowly, her breath coming out in a cloud. She felt heavy. She’d never known life without her brother and now, he was dead, and she was left to carry his weight. Who was she without Paul?

There was no denying it. It was her fault he was dead. She should have tried to stop him from enlisting. She shouldn’t have even come here. It was her desire to help that led him to that small cabin in the woods half a year ago. It was her constant failures that left him on the shore of a riverbank, staring glassy eyed at the sky.

He had drowned like her.

Everyone seemed to be drowning.

She closed her eyes again, and she found herself lost in another time, in a small, broken-down house in the woods. She paced the floors, anxiously, fiddling with the bible in between her bleeding hands. She’d gotten caught in thorns on the way here.

A few minutes later, the door opened slowly, and a figure stepped into the room. Margaret melted into a smile.

“Paul,” she exclaimed, running forward to wrap her brother in her arms. Paul stiffened, making little move in return except a weak pat on the back. Margaret pulled back, her eyes full of concern. “Are you okay?”

“Just tired.” Paul exhaled. Margaret noticed blood dripping from his head, and she reached up to wipe it away. He flinched, drawing back with a hiss of pain. Margaret dropped her hand.

“I’m sorry.” She frowned. “I’ve been praying for you.”

At this, Paul’s eyes seemed to harden.

“Marge, you know that’s not-” he began, before cutting himself off. He bit his tongue, hard, before seeming to collect himself. “Do you have the information?”

“Of course.”

For half an hour, they spoke of nothing but maps- The British are moving. Supplies are dwindling. Soldiers are tired. Everyone is tired- and spoke nothing of home. Margaret wanted to reassure her brother, and she tried to encourage him by gripping his hand, but he always drew back- as if there was some spiritual force pushing the two apart.

The sun had barely moved by the time Paul drew back, having finished coping out all the notes. He muttered a word of thanks, before quickly moving to the door.

“You’re leaving?” Margaret asked, furrowing her eyebrows. Paul paused in the doorway.

“Yeah. I have…” he hesitated. “I have stuff I need to do.”

“I’ll miss you.” Margaret spoke into the silence. “But Paul- you said you’re tired- why don’t you just stay here for a moment? We can just sit together. You can rest and then head back.”

Paul had smiled bitterly, his eyes sparkling with an age his body didn’t possess.

“Oh, Margaret. This isn’t a tired that rest can fix.”

For months, Margaret had mulled over what his words meant. What was this his form of rest? What did tired really mean? What had her brother seen that turned him from the young boy in the garden into this shell of a man? Why didn’t he just sit with her?

Now, finally, Margaret understood. Paul was tired of war- tired of men dying- tired of living from day to day with no purpose but to wake up. Maybe he knew he was going to die. Maybe he wanted to.

Now, Margaret was in that position. She was tired, but, like Paul had done, she knew she had to carry on.

God would come to you when he knew your duty had been fulfilled.

Until then, you had to keep fighting and hope that you could redeem yourself. And if you couldn’t… just get the job done.

Margaret was growing lightheaded. She was drifting in and out of reality. Reality… reality was just yesterday, repeated on into the future.

“Sixteen hundred men, your brother among them…”

But there’d always be another sixteen hundred men, wouldn’t there? If Margaret saved them today, they would just die tomorrow. They’d all die eventually. 

She mumbled something incoherent even to herself. Words from somewhere beyond her.

“Come on, pick a side! Which one are you on?”

“The right one!”

Who did people care for? Who did Jesus come to save? Who were the soldiers in the trenches? Humans.

Humanity was the reason Margaret was still here- because Schofield had trusted her. Humanity was in Blake’s smile every time he made a stupid joke. It was in the church piano when she played it. It was in Paul’s constant desire to explore. It was in the supply officers and their constant banter. It was in the way no one ever gave up. They kept fighting.

What was Margaret protecting when she went after her brother? Humans. Paul had lost his humanity. She was drowning in the lack of it. She couldn’t let anyone else lose what made them human. She didn’t want the rest of the British soldiers to die.

Her eyes shot open.

The sky was blue. Her blood was red. She knew what she had to do.

With a soft groan, she reached out her uninjured hand to grasp the wall. She tried to pull herself up, ignoring the way the world spun like she was being thrown around. Her arm ached with a dull, constant pain, the drips of blood echoing around the room.

The German soldier lay slumped against the wall, his hand still clutching the pistol, but his eyes long since glazed over. Margaret wondered if he had a wife. She couldn’t imagine anyone loving someone like him.

A flash of pain went up her shoulder, and she let out a hiss of pain, reaching up to grab it. Her fingers wrapped around her bloodied arm, feeling the liquid sticking in her skin. Her mind drifted to Blake.

How could one person have so much blood?

They’d gotten it from others.

She took a step towards the door, gritting her teeth. She had to find Schofield. She had to finish the mission she volunteered for. She had to save the sixteen-hundred men about to be delivered into the hands of dead.

Just as she was about to take another step forward, the door burst open. Margaret tensed, immediately backing up and preparing for the inevitable sound of a shot, before Schofield stepped into the room, his eyes wide with desperation and panic. His eyes met Margaret’s, and for a moment, everything seemed to stop.

Schofield was wet. His hair stuck to his face, which was covered in dirt and blood. He was breathing heavily, holding a rifle in one shaking hand.

“Margaret,” he managed, exhaling like her name was breath in his lungs.

Margaret couldn’t manage any words back. Her gaze remained unblinking. She thought he was dead. Evidently, he felt the same about her. Margaret swallowed hard.

“Schofield,” she managed, trying to keep her voice as even as possible, despite the fact she probably looked like she’d just emerged from a swamp. “Is your… is your head okay?”

Schofield moves his hand to the back of his head. Margaret can see his flinch at the touch, but he quickly shakes his head and focuses back on Margaret.

“I’ve been through worse,” was his only reply. “Are you okay? I was… I didn’t know where you went.”

Almost instinctively, Margaret’s gaze travels to the dead German against the wall. Schofield’s eyes follow hers to find the body on the floor. His eyes widened as he turns back to Margaret.

“Good lord, Margaret,” he whispered, panicked, “you’ve been in a fight.”

“It’s nothing, really,” Margaret protested, shaking her head. “We really have to-” 

Schofield moved closer to her, reaching out to find her shoulder soaked in her own blood. He looked up at her, and Margaret felt her breath hitch. They were impossibly close now. She could feel his breath on her face.

Schofield bit his lip, seemingly struggling for words. Margaret stared at him, unwavering, but terrified. He was going to reject her. She thought he was. All this fanciful talk of saving humanity had all been by herself. But now, with this representation of everything she’d ever done wrong in front of her, she was lost to his whims.

“Margaret,” Schofield’s voice was soft as he spoke to her, “I don’t know where you’ve been, or what you’re doing,” Oh God, here it comes- “But I want your help. I need it.” Margaret’s eyes widened in surprise, but Schofield’s gaze remained steady. 

“Schofield,” Margaret gave a shaky laugh, “I’m a mess. Why would you need me?”

“‘Please, be with us wandering souls as we try to do what is best for the world.’.”

“What?”

“‘Please, be with us wandering souls as we try to do what is best for the world.’ Us wandering souls. That’s what you said in your prayer.” The soldier sucked in a breath, his tone suddenly becoming serious. “We started this mission together, and I can’t finish it without you.” He exhaled, slowly. “It’s what Blake would want. And… I think it’s what I want too.”

A minute passes of nothing but silence. Neither were sure what to do. Then, Schofield gave her a weak smile. “Now, please, can we see about that shoulder?”

Margaret nodded, numbly, slowly lowering herself on the ground, with Schofield following suit as he sat in front of her. He pulled out a bandage from the pockets of his uniform, ripping it up and gently applying it to her shoulder. She hissed in pain but tried to keep herself still. Schofield’s hand was still shaking.

“You were looking for me, weren’t you?” Margaret spoke into the silence.

“Yes,” Schofield replied, avoiding her gaze. There was blood on his hands, now, but he hardly seemed to care.

“I’m sorry about the blood,” she apologized weakly.

“It’s alright.” Schofield shook his head. “At least it’s not a stranger’s blood, this time.”

Are we not strangers, soldier boy? Strangers in the forgotten land of love.

Yet, with the way he’s touching her- she’s not sure anymore.

“You were looking for me, weren’t you”

“Yes.”

Someone was trying to find her. Someone wanted her, despite all her flaws and messes. They didn’t want her perfect or want her because she did something- no, Schofield wanted just wanted her.

Margaret let out a breath. She didn’t want to get up. She didn’t want to face the question of eternity- of God. She just wanted to sit next to this boy forever. Slowly, she laid her forehead on his shoulder. She was tired. She desired rest.

“I’m sorry we can’t have more time, Schofield,” she murmured into his uniform. Gently, Schofield reached out to grip her hand, giving it an encouraging squeeze.

“We have now,” he whispered.

Margaret lifted her chin up, staring at Schofield. His soft blue eyes stared back at her with a tired expression, but he still managed a smile. God, Margaret loved it when he smiled.

And suddenly they were kissing, all over each other, kissing like it was a prayer for which no words existed. Kissing because now was all they would ever have- because the future was always coming, looming over them, but, for now, they were safe in each other’s arms.

They kissed because they understood each other.

They kissed because it would be the last time that might be true.

Margaret cupped Schofield’s cheeks, feeling the dirt covering his face under her hands. He was so painfully human. He was just a soldier thrust into war and trying to finish a job. He had had his best friend killed, almost lost his own life countless times, and been through unimaginable horrors even before that. But he was still here, encouraging others and carrying on. He didn’t give up when bad things happened. He was humanity- continuing on his constant quest to save others.

In some way, he had saved her.

His hands reached around her neck, his thumb tracing idle circles around her cheek. It made Margaret feel warm. As long as she and Schofield stayed here, in this random building in the middle of a broken town, they were safe. As long as they were together.

After a few moments, they broke away, breathlessly. Their foreheads were pressed against each other, their breath warm on each other’s skin.

“Thank you,” Margaret whispered, unable to find anything more. 

“What for?” Schofield asked, his eyes still closed.

“For making me feel like I’m worth looking for,” Margaret replied, before pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. 

Outside, a bell tolled. Time continued at its relentless pace. Not even love could stop that.

“We have to go,” Margaret murmured, drawing away.

“I know,” Schofield nodded weakly. He stood up first, grunting softly as he grabbed his pack and threw it over his shoulder once more. The hole in the ceiling shone light on the back of his head, making a halo in Margaret’s bleary vision- almost making him look like an angel. Margaret smiled at that.

Schofield reached out a hand to her.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she nodded to herself. “I’m ready.” 

She was ready to accept her fate. Margaret was indeed a stranger- even more so now with the loss of her brother- but she knew that God would lead her home again… whatever that home may be.

He moved on to Margaret, who shook his hand with little vigor as Schofield raised an eyebrow, confusion flashing in his gaze.

“But, these are direct orders, sir,” he protested lightly.

“I know,” the captain sighed, “but some men just want the fight.”

Schofield pursed his lips, but nodded nonetheless. Margaret frowned. What kind of person would want to continue a fight as destructive as this one? She was sure that everyone just wanted to go home and take a long nap.

A nap… she could certainly use one of those.

She turned to Schofield, watching as he pulled out a small compass from the folds of his uniform. The captain headed off, yelling at the drivers as the trucks slowly roared back to life and turned away, beginning their slow ride along the riverside. The trucks got smaller and smaller until they were nothing more than blotches of black on the landscape- a stain.

Only then did Schofield clear his throat, nodding to the land to the left of them.

“Ecoust is southeast,” he explained. “We’ve got a mile or so before we should run into it.”

Margaret stared at the endless fields of withered yellow grass. Now, it was their turn to be the stain on an otherwise pure land.

“Yeah… let’s go,” she murmured, and the two began to slowly make their way into the fields and towards their next landmark. It felt impossibly hot for April, with the sun beating down on the dry and cracked land and the two wandering souls upon it.

Margaret just kept putting one foot in front of the other. The pair was silent for a while. The topics that weighed on their minds were far from small talk. 

Blake was dead, of course. That was what both of them were thinking. Was it their fault? Margaret was sorry. She really was. But her guilt would not purify her.

“How are you going to write that letter to Blake’s family if you don’t have any address for him?” Margaret asked finally, glancing up at Schofield with 

“I know his mother’s address,” Schofield explained, keeping his gaze straight ahead. “He’s given it to me before.”

“So, you were close,” Margaret noted, searching for confirmation even when didn’t want that to be the answer. 

“Yeah,” was Schofield’s only reply. 

Now she felt even worse.

“I’m sorry,” she managed, frowning. At this, Schofield glanced over at her, a mixture of sadness and resentment in his gaze.

“You’ve said that a lot, Margaret,” Schofield commented, giving a bitter grimace. “People tell me that all the time; that they’re sorry. But no one ever really means it.”

“I mean it,” Margaret began, biting her lip. “It’s just not enough.”

This seemed to hit Schofield right in the chest. He paused briefly, giving her a curious look, before shaking his head and looking away.

“You’re just full of wisdom, aren’t you?” he gave a strained laugh.

“I have to be,” Margaret shrugged, happy for the subject change. “I’ve been to more funerals than I can count. Part of being a churchgoer, I suppose- learning to say the kinds of apologies that really matter.”

“I never knew what to do with myself at funerals,” Schofield sighed. He took his helmet off, briefly, running a hand through his sweaty strands of hair. Maybe it wasn’t just the heat that was getting to them. Maybe it was the shame.

“And how many funerals have you been to, exactly?” Margaret asked. It sounded like a jabbing comment, but her expression was so genuine that Schofield answered.

“Just one,” Schofield replied. “my brother’s.”

Margaret blinked, eyes widening.

“I didn’t know you had a brother,” she commented, suddenly feeling very guilty. How much had this man had taken from him? 

“He was young,” Schofield sighed. “He was born a year or so after me. He drowned when he was only two. My parents were hit the hardest. They always blamed me for it, since they loved him so much. I was supposed to be watching him in the river, but this bird had gotten a hold of our bread and I ran after it- and by the time I got back…”

“You can’t listen to them for that.” Margaret frowned. “You were too young for everything they gave you.”

“We’re always too young, Marge,” Schofield gave a bitter laugh, gesturing to the world around them. “Look at this war. A bunch of young men fighting for something they don’t know the half of.”

“Everyone’s fighting for a reason. No one runs into combat as harsh as the stuff here just because someone tells them too,” Margaret protested. “Why would a war like this keep going on if no one even cared?” She turned to Schofield, her face set. “Why are you here, Schofield? What are you fighting for?”

Schofield’s gaze drifted out into the empty fields.

“I just want to go home,” he admitted, his voice cracking with emotion. “I’m fighting so there’s a home to go back to.”

Home. It was a word so small, so simple, and yet it encompassed something so vast that it could never truly be defined. Sometimes, home was a place. It was your childhood bed or sitting in front of the window. Sometimes, home was a person. It was your mother and her chocolate chip cookies or your best friend and their bright smile.

For Schofield, home was a feeling. Schofield craved safety and peace. Wherever he felt that he could truly let go and just stop worrying for the moment- that was his home.

Margaret didn’t know what her home was. She wasn’t even sure if she could even point to a feeling. Home was a foreign word. She had people and she had houses and she had moments of happiness, but never a home. She had her brother. He was probably the closest she would get to a person to whom she truly belonged.

And then, there was the home she was always waiting for: heaven. She could never imagine it here on earth. Schofield could, though. He had people who loved him and wanted him to come back alive. Schofield needed to keep living. 

Margaret trailed to a stop, causing Schofield to give her a confused look.

“Schofield,” Margaret began, taking a breath, “Can I pray for us?”

“I'm not a religious man, Margaret,” Schofield furrowed his eyebrows, but he didn’t seem to be angry. He was just… stating a fact.

“I figured.” Margaret managed a smile. “But sometimes prayer can be more than just talking to God. Praying for something means that you hope for it. I think we could both use a little hope right now.”

Schofield stared at her for a moment, before he gave a nod and one of his signature half smiles. He made his way over to her, standing awkwardly still.

“How does this work?” he asked, biting his lip.

“Have you never done this before?” Margaret furrowed her eyebrows at him.

Schofield shook his head, somewhat ashamed.

Margaret reached into her collar, pulling a string of beads with a cross in the middle off her neck. She was surprised by the slickness of it. It was covered in blood. She couldn’t have imagined how.

She wondered if, subconsciously, she had pulled it out as Blake died, trying to speak to God about this young boy and her own mistakes.

She rubbed the beads between her fingers. She didn’t like that they were stained. In fact, she felt ashamed of it; the kinds of things that would mean. But she couldn’t clean it off. She wouldn’t let the beads touch anything besides her hands.

She placed the beads in one of her hands, squeezing gently, before looking up at Schofield. Schofield stared at her with a quiet fascination at the ritual unfolding before him. 

“Here, put your hands over mine,” Margaret said, reaching out to gently take his hand and move it on top of hers. Schofield didn’t protest, placing both his hands on top of Margaret’s rosary holding one. Margaret tried to ignore the warmth that came with his motion and focused instead on the wet rosary in one hand.

“Now, close your eyes,” Margaret directed as she placed her hand over his. They were impossibly close now, their foreheads nearly touching as the space between them closed.

Schofield did as he was told, letting his eyes slip shut. A warm breeze swept over the field, rustling his dirty blonde hair. Margaret couldn’t help but stare at the soldier in front of her. He looked impossibly… normal. She looked at him for a while, finding her mind blank of anything except his face in front of her and how she’d feel if she touched it.

After a minute, his eyes fluttered open to look at her, and Margaret’s breath caught in her throat. His eyes were gorgeous- a clear blue that sparkled in the dying light of the afternoon. They were the kind of blue she thought she would only find in the skies of heaven. 

They were eyes that held depth. They could turn stormy in an instant or they could shine as bright and clear as a summer’s day. Margaret wanted to see it all. 

“Margaret?” Schofield asked tentatively, nearly breaking her from her thoughts as Margaret felt the world almost begin to fade away. The rosary in her hand was drowned out by the white noise of his voice in her head.

“Dear God, Scho,” she whispered, her mind racing. “I think I’m going to regret this.”

Schofield gave a laugh, and it sounded like the melody of an old hymn- confusing and somewhat damning, but so familiar that it held a kind of comfort within its creaky piano keys.

“No one ever regrets the things they believe in, Margaret,” Schofield replied, his voice impossibly soft. “They’re what keep us alive.”

And what if I believe in something that the world could never let me have? What if I believe in you?

Margaret shut her eyes quickly, clutching Schofield’s hands as she turned her head to the ground and faced the dirt.

“Please, Lord,” she began, her voice quiet but carrying a kind of desperation to it, “guide home the sinners. Guide home the saints. I pray that everyone gets their peace, somehow. An eternity ago, Christ came down and died for our sins. He sacrificed himself and his own life for the sake of people as normal and painfully human as me.”

She squeezed her eyes even tighter, feeling tears leak out of her cheeks,

“I am no Jesus Christ, but I’m willing to tear myself down to build others up. It could never make up for the things I’ve done, or the things I will inevitably do- but I need your help being that kind of person for others. Please, be with us wandering souls as we try to do what is best for the world. Please give the good their reward. Do not hesitate to give the bad what they deserve.”

She thought of her brother and his constant grin and compassion for others and all the good he did. She thought of the sixteen-hundred men bent down in the trenches, inevitably preparing for their attack in less than twelve hours, and all their stories of love and hope. She thought of herself, staring at the dirt and holding a rosary stained by a man she killed.

“Please, God, just give let me get to him,” she whispered, her voice barely audibly over the wind. “Give me this last chance to make a difference.”

She glanced up at Schofield, who she found had already been looking at her through eyes full of surprise and pain. She swallowed hard, still talking to God but unable to tear her gaze from him.

“And let Schofield find his peace, again,” Margaret finished. “I pray that you’ll give him someone he deserves. In Jesus’ name,” she whispered, exhaling slowly, “amen.”

Silence. Neither Schofield nor Margaret could find the words. Margaret just squeezed Schofield’s hand and stepped back, taking the rosary from her hands and placing it over her head once more.

“Thank you for doing that with me, Scho,” she said, giving him a soft smile despite the tears in her eyes. “That means a lot to me.”

“We really are wandering souls, aren’t we?” Schofield murmured, his gaze not drifting from Margaret’s soft brown gaze.

“We really are,” was all Margaret could manage in reply. They were two lost souls hoping to find the path to righteousness and redemption for their broken hearts.

Silence was heavy in the air as they turned away from each other, back to the trail they were cutting through the rotting fields. This time, neither of them broke it. The stuff they were thinking about was enough to keep them occupied. Margaret tried not to think of how beautiful Schofield’s eyes had been in the light of the sun.

After a while, they started to smell smoke. Margaret glanced up, finding black trails making their way through the sky, looking almost like a stain in the normally clear blue of the sky above.

Schofield noticed too, and he narrowed his eyes, picking up the pace to push up the next hill. Margaret followed behind him, apprehension filling her. When she emerged on the top of the hill, she found herself looking down upon a sprawling collection of dark buildings across from a blue river that flowed gently by it. 

“Ecoust?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Schofield replied.

They had made it to the next landmark on their journey- the next symbol of their pilgrim’s progress. She glanced over at him.

“He said we have to follow the river, right?” She couldn’t bear to say the name of her fallen companion. “Down to the woods just southeast of here?”

Schofield nodded.

“We’ll have to cut through the city. It’ll be faster.”

Margaret glanced up at the sun. It was halfway through the afternoon. At this, she allowed herself to smile. 

“We could make it in time, Scho.” She turned to him with a hopeful grin. Schofield smiled back.

“Let’s hope that your God is on our side,” he nodded to her, before adjusting his helmet and gesturing for her to follow him down the slope of the hill and towards a ruined bridge that spanned the river that separated them from the town.

Margaret sucked in a breath as they neared the bridge, her gaze sweeping over the ruin of it all. The bridge fell gradually into the water, leaving a gap too large to jump between each side of the bridge.

“Here,” Schofield interrupted the silence, and Margaret looked up to see him gesturing to a stint of iron that stretched along the side. “We can take the railing.”

Margaret nodded, taking her rifle and placing it over her head so she didn’t have to worry about it falling during the trek. She placed both hands on the railing and braced herself, rocking back and forth on her legs, before dragging herself up. Slowly, she raised herself into a standing position, standing tall above the watery depths below. 

In front of her, Schofield managed to pull himself up to the same position. He gave her an encouraging nod before sucking in a breath and making his way down the railing. Margaret followed slowly behind, focusing on each step as they came and trying to ignore how exposed she felt.

It was just her and Schofield; water below and sky above. 

She took another step on the railing. In front of her, Schofield had come to a stop, gripping the strap of his rifle tightly.

“There’s a gap,” he explained, and Margaret gritted her teeth. 

“Can you make it across?” she asked.

“We’re going to have to jump,” Schofield turned back to glance at her, briefly, before taking a step backwards and throwing himself across the edge. He landed on the other side, swaying as he tried to regain his balance. He turned back towards her, reaching out across the gap.

“Here- take my hand,” Schofield assured her. Margaret steadied herself, preparing to make the leap across the gap. 

“Okay,” she began, rocking back and forth on her feet.

A loud bang echoed around the landscape at the same time a strong force practically threw itself into Margaret’s hip. She stumbled, trying to regain her balance for a moment, before falling into the deep water below.

It turned out the water was not that deep. Within seconds, her shoulder smashed hard into something beneath the water, causing pain to radiate up her spine. She tried to scream, but her cries were lost under the water. A million questions raced around her mind.

What had happened? What was that noise? Why couldn’t she breathe? Why wasn’t she dead yet? Why did she feel so impossibly alone?

She struggled, her lungs burning as she tried to pull herself up to the surface and up to the light, but something seemed to keep her pinned to the metal bar beneath her. She waved her hands around the water, trying to find what was pinning her down, but she couldn’t find a good hold on anything.

She heard a splash and watched a blurry figure cutting through the murky water towards her. Margaret jerked, trying to get away, until she felt a firm grip on her shoulders. She blinked, seeing the face of a man above her. He was gorgeous. Was this an angel? She tried to speak, but instead swallowed more water, causing her to convulse. Water filled her lungs and she started to feel sick- sick and tired. So, so tired.

If this really was an angel, maybe she was dead already. Maybe all her work was futile. 

The angel man tried to pull her up through the water, but she was once again caught. She felt the pressure in her chest, but she found nothing there except the strap of her messenger bag. 

Lethargically, she moved her hand through the water to tug on her strap. She tried to pull it over her shoulder, but it felt like a ton of bricks. She had tried to lift bricks once, when she was younger, and the church was falling apart, and the townspeople had all gathered to try and restore it. Her brother had had to help her carry the bricks. 

Was everything getting brighter? The former darkness of the water was suddenly getting swallowed up by something clearer and bluer. She wondered if she was dying. Wasn’t this normally what-

Margaret emerged out to the surface again. Someone was dragging her onto a concrete path that lined the edge of the river. She was placed gently upon it, facing the sun, as she blinked harshly in this newfound light. As her eyes adjusted, she found someone peering down at her, fear in his sky-blue eyes. 

“Margaret!” he yelled, but it was all but lost amongst the roaring of her water-clogged ears. She didn’t need his voice, though. She just needed his eyes.

“Scho?” she began, her voice thick.

Then she felt the weight of the water in her stomach. She practically jumped up, leaning over the water and vomiting out the river water into the very same place she had swallowed it from. She heaved, breathing heavily, before a loud bang sounded around her and something hit the water in front of her. She jerked back, pressing her back against the wall and looking around dizzily.

“What’s happening?” she asked, jerking her gaze over to Schofield as she tried to focus her messy gaze on him.

“German sniper- in that building,” Schofield gestured to a tall lockhouse that loomed over the horizon. 

“Was… was I shot?” Margaret asked, her eyes widened as she glanced down at her side. Desperately, she pulled off her jacket and pulled up her shoot to stare at what she guessed as the impact point. Where she expected to find blood, she saw nothing but the pistol she’d stolen from the British supply room. It has a bullet lodged in the ammunition case.

“You’re carrying around a Tracraola in your pants?” Schofield asked. Another bullet hit the cement right in front of them.

Margaret pulled out the gun, examined it to make sure it was okay, before shoving it back into its holder.

“It’s a long story,” was all Margaret could reply, grimacing. 

“Well, how are you feeling?” he asked, looking at her with a nervous expression. Margaret was taken aback by his concern. She couldn’t remember the last time that someone had asked her that.

“Fine, considering I almost drowned,” Margaret pursed her lips into an awkward smile. She reached instinctively towards her chest, looking for her rifle, but found nothing. Her heart jumped.

“I had to get rid of your bag and rifle when you fell in,” Schofield explained, taking out his own rifle and adjusting his helmet. “They’re probably at the bottom of the river now.”

Margaret nodded grimly.

“So did you just…” she began, glancing back at him, “jump in and try to pull me out?”

Schofield nodded.

“But why?” Margaret asked.

“The last thing I want is to have someone else’s blood on my hands,” Schofield frowned, looking away uncomfortably. 

Margaret couldn’t help but wonder if he felt responsible for Blake’s death. She couldn’t imagine why. He’d only been trying to help. Margaret had been trying to kill. She pulled out the pistol and cocked it, clutching it with trembling hands.

“I can get the sniper in the window,” she managed, giving him a hard nod. “Trust me.”

Schofield nodded nervously, adjusting his helmet. Margaret whispered a countdown before the two of them darted across the open land beneath the bridge. Two bullets shot at them, but they both managed to avoid it before practically slamming into the opposing wall. 

Margaret tried to steady her breathing, taking stock of the situation. A short staircase that led up to the town started up next to them, with the lockhouse a couple meters beyond that.

She wondered if she could run it.

She had almost died so many times today already, so what was one more dance with death before her grand finale?

“Schofield,” she whispered to the man beside her. Schofield was clutching his rifle so hard that his knuckles were as white as snow, his trembling body pressed into her. He looked over at her with an expectant gaze. “I’m going to try and distract him by running to the building on the side. When I start running, you pop up and try to line up a good shot at him.”

She looked at her companion expectantly.

“Margaret, I really don’t think that this is a good idea,” Schofield protested, but Margaret grabbed his hand and gave it a hard squeeze, cutting him off.

“Guide home the sinners, right?” she gave an encouraging smile. Schofield tried to smile back, but it looked more like a pained grimace. “Okay, on three-” Margaret began. “One, two!”

She threw herself up from her hiding place and started sprinting up the stairs as fast as she could manage. She heard the pop of shots behind her but kept running towards the ruins of a building that lay in front of her. At the last few dash, she threw herself towards it, sliding along the dirt with her pants. She lay there for a moment, curled into a ball and clutching her helmet, before she dared to look up. She saw Schofield’s head poking up from the staircase at eye level with her.

She widened her eyes, hoping for an answer. Schofield just nodded, pushing himself up and darting over to her. He helped her up, leaving Margaret to dust off her pants and readjust her helmet.

“Did you get him?” she asked, breathlessly.

“Pretty sure,” Schofield replied. “But I suppose we’re going to find out.”

Margaret nodded, sucking in a breath as she followed Schofield towards the lockhouse. Its door lay ajar, only half attached to the hinges, and sent out a musty smell into the area outside it.

Margaret wrinkled her nose, stepping inside and onto creaky wooden floors covered in dirt. Unlike the farmhouse, this structure had next to no furniture. She hoped this meant the former residents had made it out in time. She prayed that it did.

Schofield gestured to the staircase in the main entrance, and Margaret nodded, cautiously making her way up it behind Schofield, watching his back at every turn. They moved wordlessly, just covering the blind sides and trying to stay as silent as possible- though Margaret worried that her heart was beating so loudly that the dead German on the other side could hear it through… purgatory. 

She curled her finger around the trigger of her pistol, raising it up and aiming at the door. Schofield moved up to it, placing one hand on the door and slowly pushing it open.

A German soldier lay slumped on the other side, aiming his own pistol at Schofield.

In the course of a split second, two shots rang out. Both of them landed. Schofield shot his rifle off at the soldier, who took it straight in his chest and finally had the light taken out of his gaze. The German soldier shot off his pistol and it hit Schofield right in the head, taking his helmet off and throwing him down the stairs and onto the landing below. Margaret thought she screamed, but she was too distracted by the thud to tell. 

She stood there, at the top of the stairs, paralyzed for a moment. Then she saw the blood seeping from Schofield’s head, and she felt her body jerk. She rushed down to his side, cupping his face with both hands. His eyes were shut.

“Schofield!” she called, trying to shake him away. “Schofield, wake up! You can’t die on me now!”

Good lord, was he dead? She quickly pressed her ear to his chest, begging God for a heartbeat. She heard one, though it was slow and sluggish. She turned back to the soldier beneath her, feeling the back of his head. Her hand came back slick with blood.

She practically tore off her jacket, balling up into a pillow. Gently, she raised up Schofield’s head and placed the jacket underneath him, hoping to quell some of the blood flow. Schofield gave a light groan at this, but besides that made no movement. He was somewhat subconscious, which made her hopeful that he’d wake up soon. The only question was, how soon?

She glanced at her watch. They didn’t have much time until the sun set. Midafternoon was quickly fading into the clutches of night.

For a moment, Margaret was torn because, suddenly, the scales of morality no longer just included her brother. There were the thousand soldiers about to be slaughtered in an ambush. And there was the broken soldier in front of her who, as she clutched his body in her hands, she realized she cared about a lot more than she had originally anticipated. 

There were so many lives to save. So many people who still had ways to live and people to live for. She couldn’t let them down. She wasn’t going to give up on them. She had a chance to change someone’s fate. She knew that, no matter the cost, that was worth everything.

Slowly, she looked up from Schofield’s unconscious body and moved her gaze to the window. Schofield would be fine- he had to be. He could go off and be the hero that saved sixteen-hundred soldiers from an ambush. Margaret just needed to save her brother to have her happy ending. That was all she needed.

She had to warn him.

Margaret glanced back down to Schofield. This would be the last time she ever saw him again- with blood leaking from his head and an expression full of exhaustion. She brushed some hair out of his face, wishing she could smooth away the exhaustion in his face.

“I’m sorry, Scho,” she whispered, before pushing herself up and grabbing her pistol beside him. “I hope you finish the mission.”

She was met with nothing but the sound of water dripping into the empty space. She stared at him for a while, trying to drink in every part of his features. She imagined that he and Paul would be good friends in another life. She imagined that, in another life, she and Schofield would have five more minutes together. 

But not this one. 

She turned and made her way down the stairs, just focusing on one foot after another. She made her way out of the building, and into the fading twilight. The edges of the sky were starting to be dusted in twilight, small points of light breaking out from the darkness.

She paused at the nearest corner, leaning against the building and pulling out her map. She was in the city of Ecoust, which would normally have been right next to the German line. Her best estimation was that the new German line was somewhere northwest of here, directly opposite the British troops. If she walked through the patch of woods on the map, she could make it to the far edge of the German line.

She rolled up the map, a hopeful smile on her face. Then, she could get to her brother. God was on her side.

“And then I said, ‘well, I’m sure I’ll be seeing you in hell!’” a voice said far to her left, down the empty street. Margaret jumped, her eyes widening as she turned her head around to find the source of the noise. The voice continued “and then I burned the whole place to the ground.”

Margaret looked up, squinting in the darkness as she peered around the edge. In the darkness, she watched two figures making their way down the street. They were passing a cigarette back and forth, illuminating their faces. They continued chatting, idly, barely even looking up from each other and the cigarette. It was only as they kept talked that Margaret realized they had been speaking German.

German soldiers? she prayed, trying to catch a glimpse of their uniform. She spotted the helmets first, the distinct ones that they nod had looped around their waist. Then she saw their guns. They were indeed soldiers, probably out on evening patrol. 

Margaret ducked back around the building, her mind racing. Maybe they would know where her brother was. Maybe they could help her.

“Sir!” she called out in German, waving to them. It felt nice to get back to speaking her language again.

The two soldiers looked up, each reaching for their gun, until they realized the person calling out to them wasn’t a British soldier or superior office, but instead a girl. 

“Who are you?” one of the soldiers called out, leaning forward to try and get a better look at her.

“I’m a German, like you!” Margaret yelled back. “I’m looking for my brother!”

“Your brother?” They were drawing even closer now.

Margaret nodded, trying to keep her face even. It felt weird to speak the truth again, after months of lying. She wondered, briefly, if Schofield would still like her if she admitted she lied. She knew what the answer was.

The soldiers reached her side. The blonde, who had a higher ranking than the other, had a look of concern, but held hidden anger in his eyes. Margaret tried to stand up taller. She had an extra few inches advantage over him. She could not say the same about his fellow soldier, who was probably Schofield’s height.

“Are you okay?” the blonde asked, raising an eyebrow. He looked non-threatening enough.

“Sir, I really need your help,” Margaret explained, gesturing vaguely. “I need to deliver a message to the German front lines. My brother, he doesn’t know-” She cut herself off.  It was best not to say that.

“Doesn’t know what?” the blonde asked. His gaze flickered over to his companion, who moved closer to Margaret, causing her to begin to step away, 

“I can’t say.” She bit her lip.

“Hm,” was all the German replied. “We’ll see.”

Then, he turned to his companion and gave a quick, brisk nod. Margaret widened her eyes, turning her head to go look at the soldier next to her, when she felt something hard hit the back of her head.

Lewis Nixon

- Is so excited actually

- Will scream cheer so loud it scares the people around him

- Lots of swearing

- Sits super close to see the action, munching on popcorn the whole time

- Heckles the other team 💀

- Definitely brags about you to people

Carwood Lipton

- An expert at pep talks

- Like he’s with you before hand just pumping you up

- Not loud celebrations, but lots of grinning and clapping

- Tries to act stoic but is really nervous every game

- Stoicism goes away when you win and he cheers for you

- You make eye contact and grin after you win

- Lots of locker room hugs 🥰

Joe Toye

- So fucking loud

- Takes every game super seriously, even if it’s just pre-season or an exhibition

- Probably has superstitions 😭😭

- Loud and obnoxious clapping

- Big on trash talk

- Probably looks up stuff about the other team to be better at trash talk lmao

- Has all the merch

Joe Liebgott

- Doesn’t really get it at first

- Until you finally convince him to go and it’s electric

- Like he likes the intense atmosphere

- And seeing you at there in your UNIFORM???

- He literally falls in love all over again

- Thinks it’s so hot 🥵

- Cusses out people who even criticize your game a little bit

Dick Winters

- bro is so supportive

- Has no idea what is going on, but cheers when everyone else is

- Tries to learn as much as possible

- Checks out all the library books and asks so many questions

- By the third game he’s literally an expert

- Just wants to see you happy, and if doing this does that, he’s fully for it

- Only time he ever gets super excited about it is when you win a close game

Bill Guarnere

- Takes it even more seriously than Joe Toye

- He’s from Philly, what do you expect?

- Almost got kicked out once for fighting with a fan of the opposite team

- Does that thing where he stands up really fast and spills food all over himself 😭

- Cusses out the refs

- Almost storms the field/*insert anything here* after you win a big game

George Luz

- Has exactly one piece of merch he wears to every game

- Pretends he’s the announcer

- He’s actually really good at it, like someone get him up into the commentators box lmao

- Every time something big happens he figures out a way to make it about you

- Probably storms the locker room after the game to party with the team 💀

Babe Heffron

- Dude is also from Philly like bfr

- Wears every piece of merchandise he can get his hands on all at once

- “THATS MY BABY!!!” 🫶✨

- Permanently standing

- He’s too excited to sit down

- Tries to be a coach, calling out plays from the stands

- One time it actually works

- He never stops bragging about it

Eugene Roe

- Gets surprisingly animated

- Tries to sit in the back but your friends force him to sit closer

- Frustrated and/or nervous French swearing

- When it’s a close game he literally cannot look, it’s so bad 😭

- Literally at every game no matter where it is, he’s insane

- Always on the look out for any kind of injury